Once Upon a Kiss

chapter 9





It was a common courtesy for a man’s wife to tend to the baths of their guests and it might have been a perfectly reasonable request if Dominique didn’t loathe the thought of being in Blaec d’Lucy’s presence.

Besides, she had never bathed a man before, because her brother had never allowed it. He’d warned her vehemently against their lechery, pointing out that their own mother had fallen prey to just such carnality while bestowing the honor herself. And it was true, for while Dominique recalled little of her mother, she remembered vividly her father’s rages and accusations.

So understandably Dominique was nervous.

It wasn’t difficult to ferret out the lord’s chamber. It lay beyond the women’s solar—or at least what should have been the women’s solar. Here, as in her brother’s household, there were no women save for those who served. With the realization, sadness bled into her anger, for she had envisioned herself partaking in a woman’s pastimes, sharing secrets with the wives and daughters of her husband’s garrison—not slaving over two ruthless, ill-tempered brothers. Perhaps Graeham was not quite the demon his brother was, but he’d made it perfectly clear what place she was to hold in his home. None.

In the solar, she made her way past the specters of her dreams, trying to will away the visions that came to her of women bantering at their sewing, children laughing at their feet, chasing naughty kittens with mouths full of stolen yarn. She lifted her head, refusing to give in to the sorrow. Always she had done what was necessary, and this moment was no different from any other. If she must bathe the beast, then so be it. She would bathe the beast.

She paused at the door, her palm on the soft wood, looking over her shoulder at the empty solar. Someday, she vowed, it would be filled with laughter—-by God, she would make it so! And bolstering her courage, she knocked upon the door.



Cramped within the confines of the bath, Blaec thrust a leg over the rim just as the knock sounded upon his door. His brows knit, for plainly it was not Graeham. While his brother seemed so determined to accord him undue honors, Blaec was certain he’d never be so absurd as to knock upon his own chamber door. Nor would anyone aware of his presence here willingly come to this chamber—certainly not without express invitation.

“Entrez,” he commanded, fully expecting a winsome maidservant to appear, courtesy of his brother. He didn’t bother to conceal himself.

Damn Graeham, for if he spent half as much time seeing to himself, rather than trying to make up for something that had long been out of both of their hands, Blaec might then be able to go on with his own life, too. He would serve his brother in some capacity always—had sworn to—but God’s teeth, Drakewich seemed to be getting smaller by the instant. In no small measure due to the arrival of the ill- tempered little vixen his brother was sworn to wed.

As the door opened, he straightened within the tub at once, jerking his leg within and sloshing water over the sides onto the floor. He’d not been prepared for this visitor.

Not this one.

His eyes narrowed. Most certainly not wearing that dress. He gripped the tub wrathfully, prepared to leap from the water—modesty be damned—and bellow for his brother until the rafters shook.

“What the bloody hell are you doing here?” he asked her incredulously.

As he watched, her cheeks brightened with chagrin or indignation—or perhaps both, he decided, for she gave him a fierce glare before averting her gaze.

“What do you think I am doing here?” she returned tartly.

His teeth clenched. “Won’t you enlighten me, demoiselle.”

Her blush deepened and she seemed to take great interest in the ceiling suddenly. With her neck arched and bared to him, revealing a strong pulse at her throat, his own heartbeat quickened painfully. He tried to ignore the temptation, but despite his anger, it was all he could do not to rise from the tub and go to her, shake her until her good sense returned, and then satisfy his hunger for the scent and the taste of her flesh.

Willing himself to remain seated within the bath, he allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to feel the pulse at her throat against his tongue. His nostrils flared.

By the love of Christ, his brother was demented to send her here.

“I have come to bathe you, of course,” she disclosed sourly.

His lips curved. “Truly?”

“Not of my own accord, I assure you, my lord.”

She cast him a swift glare, leaving him with an impression of clear blue, fiery eyes. Christ, but he could burn in those eyes for an eternity. He could scarcely help himself, for he burned even now. Images and sounds of bodies entwined, tangled limbs and exotic moans, accosted him... sweat... heat... the pulse at her throat.

At the peril of his own soul, he tried to place his brother in the embrace with her, but could not; the lips he saw suckling at the buds of her breast were his own.

Damn Graeham to hell and back.

Cursing softly, Blaec shifted uncomfortably within the tub, lifting his knee as a barrier between those extraordinary blue eyes and the evidence of his arousal. Could his brother truly have no notion what he was doing sending the wench when he was unarmored and weak as Adam? By the eyes of Christ, he might be faithful to Graeham, but unlike his brother, he was far from a saint.

Aye, and in truth, he’d never come close.

This moment he was quickly losing what will remained. The best thing he could possibly do just now was to command her out of the chamber.

He shut his eyes, clenched his jaw, and heard himself say, “Come here, Dominique.”



Dominique shivered at the sound of his voice. Raw and primal, it sent fear pummeling through her. And sweet Mary, it seemed the steamy air somehow sucked the breath from her lungs, for she suddenly found she could breathe not at all. “I... I think not,” she sputtered.

“I see.” When he reopened them, his eyes were vivid green, feverish. Arrogantly they traveled the length of her, appraising her and her gown. Good, she was glad her dress displeased him. The last thing she wished to do was to please the cur.

“And do you think to bathe me from whence you stand?” he taunted softly. “Or did you plan instead to simply watch, demoiselle?”

“Of course not!” The very notion. Even realizing she’d been goaded into it, Dominique took a reluctant step forward, and then stopped where she stood, unable to close the distance between them, after all.

Aye, she was a coward!

To her dismay, he lifted a sopping rag from the water and held it out to her, his eyes boldly issuing a challenge. Her body trembled at the merest possibility of touching it—that cloth that had shared the same bath water as him—taking it so intimately from his hands. Touching him. She could scarcely believe this was happening. And she could not think clearly with him holding the rag out so insistently.

Was this the way her mother had felt? Was this how her betrayal had begun?

She moved forward, reaching out for the rag warily, for she imagined him closing his hand about her wrist lest she escape him.

What would she do then? Scream? Turn and flee?

Somehow she didn’t think she’d be able to, so much did the sight of him mesmerize her. The notion unnerved her so that she snatched the rag from his grasp, determined not to find out, only to watch him reach down into the nebulous water once more and retrieve the soap. This, too, he handed to her.

Another challenge.

A gauntlet tossed at her feet.

Nevertheless, at the sight of it, Dominique found she could not move, even to save her pride.

Watch him, indeed!

He cocked a brow. “As I’ve assured you once already, Lady Dominique... I do not bite.”

Dominique shuddered, for she wasn’t so certain. The unmistakable predatory gleam in his eyes led her to wonder if he did not make his meal of tender babes and sacrificial virgins, after all. “Aye, well...”

“Unless you fear me, there is no cause to remain at arm’s length...”

“I—do—not—fear—you!” Dominique said as fiercely as she was able, lifting her chin. Arrogant swine. She eyed his outstretched hand as warily as though it were a treacherous dagger he were offering. Swallowing hard against the lump that suddenly appeared in her throat, she reached for the soap, only to find that she was so nervous, and the soap so slick and wet, she could not seem to grip it well enough to remove it from his hand.

Whatever clever words she’d thought to utter fled from her mind entirely as she struggled to gain hold of it. Coming to her aid, his hand curled around the soap, holding it secure for her to take, though in lifting his powerful fingers about the small piece, he touched her. His fingers, hot as tiny flames, sent jolts through her, leaving her dazed. God help her, but she could only look down at him blankly as her heart thumped wildly against her breast. Her fingers curled at last about the soap. How was it this man affected her so, when his brother did not? Something must be wrong with her, surely. Graeham was a beautiful man.

Blaec’s answering smile was cold, chilling, for it was as though he’d glimpsed into her eyes and there had spied her shameless weakness to him. And like his namesake, in that instant Dominique could well imagine that he would, indeed, take great pleasure in feasting upon her body and soul. The thought made her quiver with... surely not anticipation? Her brow furrowed. Fear, she told herself. It was fear and naught else.

He seemed to read her thoughts, for he asked her, “Certainly you aren’t afraid of me, Lady Dominique?”

“What a ludicrous notion,” she said, but her quiver made an immediate lie of her denial. “Why should I be afraid of you, my lord?”

Only belatedly did she realize she’d not removed her hand from his grasp. With his palm, he pressed the small sliver of soap into her palm as his fingers mercilessly closed about her hand, clasping it. Dominique cried out, but couldn’t think in that moment Couldn’t think at all. Blinking, she stared down at their joined hands, her heart tumbling violently within her breast. His gaze speared her. The curve of his lips seemed to mock her. There was something she should do, she knew, but could not conceive what it could be.

Between them, the bar of soap slithered like warm, wet velvet between their palms as he twisted his hand, threading his fingers through hers, tugging firmly, and drawing her nearer. Dominique could merely go, her will having fled entirely, all thought escaping her.



Blaec told himself that his intent was to frighten her, so that she would flee the chamber and leave him in peace, once and for all, but even as he drew her nearer, and forced her hand upon his chest, he knew that he had no will left at all. Like a madness, his only thought was that he would die if he not feel her small, delicate fingers dancing upon his flesh, laving him. They burned where they touched him so tentatively, and he shook with the fierce desire that overtook him suddenly, filling his loins with heat

Her intake of breath was audible. “My lord!”

She tried to draw away at the contact, but he found he could not release her.

“Lave me, then, Dominique,” he dared her. “If, indeed, you are not afraid...”

She stiffened, but did not immediately remove her hand, and he counted it a victory... a failure. God, he was weak. His brother deserved better than to be cuckolded by his own blood, and yet he could not help himself. He felt himself a man possessed. Obsessed. She was in his veins just as surely as that gown of hers belonged to him. To him. Even if she did not. In his anger, he wanted to rend it piece by piece from her body... and then bury himself within her like the blade of his sword; swiftly and with sweet vengeance.

“Lave me,” he whispered fiercely, his eyes glittering.

Still she did not move, and their gazes met, locked, held.

“I am not afraid of you,” she swore. Her breast heaved, drawing his gaze to the pebbled peaks that strained so deliciously against her bliaut. “I am not afraid of you,” she repeated, as though it were a litany. Her eyes were wide, her pupils dilated, emphasizing the incredible blue.

“Nay?”

“Nay,” she exclaimed breathlessly, and lapped at her lips with her pink little tongue.

He wanted to feel that breath upon his skin, suckle that tongue with his own, wanted to lure her into the tub atop him and crush her over his painful arousal, relieve himself of the pressure that was fast becoming insurmountable.

“Dominique,” he croaked.

God save him, he had no will left.

No will left at all.

He was weak. Despicable. And worse, without honor— his father had been right all those years ago. Every muscle in his body was tightly coiled, to the point of snapping. He meant to command her to go, but all at once her hands began to move upon his chest and he was as lost as the angel Lucifer himself.

“Dominique” The single word was a plea that she see the beast within him, that she recognize it and flee in terror, for he could do nothing but sit in the steamy water and relish the feel of her hand upon him, stroking his chest, brushing at his nipples with the soap.

“Christ.” Another plea. She affected him too deeply for rational thought. She should go, he knew, but he closed his eyes and laid his head back against the rim of the tub, releasing her hand at last.

Like a beardless youth, he groaned, and shuddered in raw, naked pleasure when she continued.