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  Dominique sighed wearily. “I tried but could not,” she repeated. And then, recalling the Dragon’s parting promise, that he would send Alyss forthwith, she asked, “Did the Dragon not find and speak with you?”

  Alyss’ face seemed to suddenly animate at the mention of Drakewich’s Dragon. Her shoulders rose and she hugged herself like a lovelorn girl. “Oh, yea, m’lady! But William... er m’lord... as I said, he bade me not to disturb you.” She came forward excitedly and seated herself upon the bed beside Dominique in a most familiar way. And though Dominique was slowly becoming used to the assuming way in which Alyss conducted herself, it took her aback. “Oh, m’lady!” Alyss exclaimed. “Is he not magnificent!”

  Dominique’s brows knit and her face screwed. “The Dragon?”

  Clearly they were not speaking of the same man.

  “Aye!” Alyss declared. “That face!” She bit at her lower lip, and shivered. “He has the face of a true man, m’lady. And those eyes...” She smiled at Dominique. “Lonely eyes, is what they are—but compassionate too.”

  Dominique’s brow furrowed. “Compassionate?”

  Could they possibly be speaking of the same man?

  ‘Fie, Alyss! How can you say such a thing when you know him not at all? That man is a Philistine!”

  Alyss’ brows collided. “A Philistine, m’lady?”

  “Aye, a Philistine—a—” Alyss looked so hopeful that Dominique shook her head in frustration, thinking it best not to enlighten her this once. She seemed too taken with the devil for Dominique to disappoint her. “Never mind,” she relented. She was simply being contrary anyway, she decided, and the last thing she wished was to spoil Alyss’ good humor. If Alyss thought the man compassionate, then so be it. She, herself, had thought him passionate. But passion was a far cry from compassion, she reminded herself.

  Shrugging, Alyss whispered, “Oh... to know a man so gentle.” And her expression was wistful.

  Dominique thought it a strange remark to make when Alyss and her brother had been lovers so long. She’d never known William to be precisely cruel, and in truth she would have thought him to be gentle with his lover, for he could be so generous when he so wished. A prickle raced down her spine at the turn of her thoughts and she wanted to ask Alyss, but refrained, for she knew it an impertinent thing to do and she didn’t still didn’t know Alyss well enough to speak so freely. Anyway, it was none of her concern, she told herself.

  “Well, now,” Alyss entreated, leaping up from the bed. “What shall we do, m’lady? Shall we plait your hair, or what?”

  It never ceased to amaze Dominique, the fervor with which Alyss served her. It was as though this were a great adventure for her, though truth to tell, Dominique would have thought it a finer thing to serve the master of the domain, and an affront to be lowered to serving his sister. Still, Alyss never complained.

  And neither could Dominique, for Alyss tried so hard, and treated her kindly—much more like the sister she never had.

  “I suppose I should change for the evening meal?” Dominique suggested. The fact that her gown had displeased him so greatly had absolutely naught to do with her desire to change, she told herself. She simply wished to.

  “Oh, yea, m’lady!” Alyss exclaimed excitedly. “And we shall endeavor to make you absolutely irresistible for your betrothed. That’s a handsome one, as well,” she said, and sighed. “And you, m’lady, are a very, very fortunate woman, indeed!” And with that, Alyss proceeded at once to explore the coffers, searching for something suitable for Dominique to wear.

  Dominique was loath to disappoint, so she said nothing at all, but the truth was that at the moment she felt anything but fortunate. She allowed Alyss to choose the gown, and then to dress her, and then when she could delay no longer, she made her way below stairs to the great hall, her legs trembling disgracefully at the mere notion of facing him again.

  Chapter 4

  Be damned if the wench wasn’t wearing a stolen gown! ’Twas no small wonder she’d glistened wearing that pillaged fiery, gold-threaded finery! It was all he could do to keep his mouth shut once he recognized it.

  Sitting at table, listening to William Beauchamp and his brother exchange pleasantries—something he never would have imagined—Blaec could scarcely credit the boldness of the wench—or that of her witless brother, for ’twas William who inevitably was the thief.

  Perhaps Beauchamp had thought the year long enough for Blaec to forget the cloth that had been plundered from his carts en route from London, but Blaec rarely forgot anything. But even if he had, the crimson samite with its gold points was unmistakable at a glance. He’d purchased the cloth from a London merchant simply because it was so extraordinary, and he’d not seen the likes of it since. It was unlikely William Beauchamp would have encountered the same merchant, nor did he feel William capable of procuring the funds for such fine wares, for he spent too much of his time and coin in mindless retribution against Drakewich. It seemed Beauchamp preferred inflicting his wrath upon the guiltless under cover of night like a coward whelp—apparently, the same way in which he acquired his wares.

  He set down his goblet, his senses too on edge to allow him to relax. He truly hoped Graeham was able to see through the artifice, though at the moment it certainly didn’t seem as though he did. God’s blood, but sometimes he worried about his brother.

  “... should you care to consummate the union beforehand,” he overheard William suggesting, “I would not at all be offended.” He made a charitable gesture with his hand.

  And for the first time since their untimely arrival, Graeham seemed as revolted as Blaec, for that proclamation managed to put an immediate lapse in the exchange between the two. His jaw going rigid, Graeham shook his head. “I..” He seemed at a loss and continued to shake his head, then choked upon his next words, coughing and stammering while William awaited his reply.

  As far as Blaec was concerned, there was no charity in the offer at all. Fury charged through him, for he was certain William was up to no good. Just what it was he was after, he could not quite fathom—yet—but he would before long.

  Graeham continued to choke.

  “Are you so eager to be rid of her?” Blaec interjected, his tone brimming with challenge. At once Graeham held a hand up to thwart him, but Blaec ignored it, pressing for an answer. It was his responsibility to uncover William’s purpose, whether Graeham willed it, or nay.

  William straightened within his chair. “We are eager only for peace,” he countered, sounding at once affronted by Blaec’s insinuation. His eyes narrowed, and in that instant, Blaec was rewarded, for he saw in them the loathing he tried with such difficulty to conceal. No, without doubt, there had been no charity in his offer.

  “Of course,” Graeham broke in immediately, having gained hold of himself at last. “We are all eager for peace.” He gave one more discreet cough. “Are we not, Blaec?”

  William sounded so hopeful, Blaec nodded, though reluctantly, but his gaze never left that of his foe. Aye, his foe—whether the fiend’s lovely sister was to be bride to his brother, or not. Glancing down briefly at his goblet of wine, he lifted it slowly, then proffered it, raising it between them. Another challenge—may William’s soul rot with the oath. To peace,” he said grimly. “May it come to—”

  Like metal to a lodestone, Blaec’s eyes were drawn to the entrance of the great hall. At the sight of her, it was all he could do to find his tongue, much less to complete his toast. No longer was she wearing the stolen ruby samite, but a gown of emerald sendal that shimmered and glowed by the torchlight as she wafted through the room. Neither gold thread nor silver embroidery could have enhanced the cloth more than she did, with her stately height and graceful, willowy form. Though if she was lean, there was naught left wanting in the fullness of her breast, for as fine as the sendal was, it clung to her bosom like an envious lover. The thought aroused him even against his will.

  Blaec covered his momentary lapse by clearing his parched th
roat. “—pass,” he concluded gruffly. “May it come to pass.” He brought the cup to his lips. Swallowing the spiced wine, savoring it with his tongue, as he observed her over the rim of his goblet.

  Like a haughty queen, she caught his gaze, met it, lifted her chin, and then gave him an icy glare before lifting her skirts and making her way toward the dais. Truth to tell, he thought her well able to give the Empress herself a fight for the crown in that moment. She took great care, he noted, not to meet his eyes again. Though it would suit him just fine, didn’t she realize, were she never to deign to look his way again.

  “Are you unwell, d’Lucy?” William asked with mock concern. “You seem so... tempered of a sudden?”

  Blaec shot him a glare, but didn’t bother replying. It was all he could do to keep from throttling the bastard where he sat—or glancing up at his too beguiling sister as she drifted behind him. A shudder bolted through him as her gown whispered by, the sound of it as alluring as the scent of her that lingered once she passed. He alone gave her his back as Graeham stood along with William to greet her, but he was unable to keep himself from lifting his face to seek again the sweet but delicate fragrance of her. She smelled of... something too tempting to consider.

  He heard a kiss, and imagined William pecking her lightly upon her smooth, high cheek—his pulse quickened—and then another kiss, and he tensed at the reminder of whom she was to become.

  His brother’s bride.

  Turning askance and closing his eyes briefly, he silently repeated the charge: Thou wilt not covet thy brother’s bride.

  ‘“Tis lovely you are, m’lady,” he heard Graeham declare, in his usual diplomatic tone. “I should count myself a fortunate man!” He guided her to where Blaec sat at his right, sharing his trencher with no one—as Blaec preferred. “Alas, we were not certain you would join us this eve, you seemed so fatigued earlier,” he said by way of apology. “Your brother and I have already endeavored to share our repast. Perchance it would please you to share this once with my brother, Blaec, instead?”

  Stunned, Blaec turned in time to see her take a startled step backward.

  The last thing Dominique wished was to share a trencher with the devil himself. She’d as lief curse him to Hades, but all eyes were upon them, so she took a step forward, however aversely. But she could not quite bring herself to actually sit beside him.

  “I assure you, demoiselle, I do not bite,” Blaec told her darkly, his voice low but resonant.

  Graeham chuckled with good humor. “Of course he does not,” he reassured.

  “Just as I do not spew flames,” Blaec added, his voice lowering. “Nor do I dine on tender babes... or, for that matter... sacrificial virgins.” His lips curved slightly, and his green eyes slivered, deep and dark as emeralds, telling her without words exactly to which sacrificial virgin he was referring.

  Dominique gasped at his coarseness, but he didn’t bother to apologize, nor did he rise from his seat as was customary. He merely glanced at his brother with something akin to disbelief—and disgust, if she read him aright. Well, she determined, casting him an affronted glance, it should occur to him that this would be no pleasure for her either! She thought to tell him so, but then recalled her vow—to slay him with kindness.

  God’s truth, this was not going to be an easy task.

  Collecting herself, Dominique smiled wanly at Graeham. “Of course, my lord, it would be my pleasure,” she lied, her heart tumbling violently as she seated herself at the Dragon’s side.

  “Will it truly be your pleasure?” Blaec asked beside her, his tone bleeding with sarcasm.

  Graeham elbowed him discreetly, yet not so discreetly that Dominique didn’t see it, and then he smiled at her apologetically. The Dragon did not so much as stir, much less to bother with an apology of his own, and to her dismay, Graeham remained only an instant longer to see that she was comfortably seated before once again abandoning her to the mercy of his unpalatable brother.

  For the longest instant Dominique was aware only of the enduring silence of the man beside her, for it seemed to permeate the width and length of the hall. Sweet Mary, but whether they were, or nay, she felt all eyes upon them.

  A young page came forward, his light brown hair neatly trimmed, and offered her water to lave with. Dominique promptly accepted, all the while making certain to keep as distant as possible from the man seated at her side. The mere thought of touching him left her stomach twisted in knots. As it was, she felt the heat of his body much too acutely.

  From the corner of her eye she watched his great hands slice the trencher in half, giving her an equal share, and she could not help but recall the deftness of those fingers as he’d liberated her gown earlier.

  Only once he’d set the trencher in front of her did she spare him a glance, but it was a mistake, she realized at once, for the look in his deep green eyes left no doubt as to his thoughts; he despised her as he did her brother, and would no doubt take great pleasure in finding them culpable. Of what, she knew not. But it seemed he was searching for something. Well, he’d not find it, she vowed.

  The hall itself, so orderly and clean—like the young page—was a far cry from that of Amdel. Her brother had never been one for fastidiousness, yet she could tell that Graeham d’Lucy was that and more, for the tables were set in perfect arrangement. The rushes beneath her feet were sweet with new herbs, and the bright-colored tapestries hanging upon the walls were immaculate. The Dragon, she knew, was inordinately meticulous as well, for the state of his bedchamber told her as much; the room, as large as it was, was completely devoid of clutter. And tonight even the evening meal was a simple but painstaking fare: cheeses, breads...

  “Mutton?” Blaec asked beside her, startling her. The deep tenor of his voice sent a quiver down her spine. God’s love, but she had not realized the carver stood behind her. Like a fresh-faced maid, she blushed at her own inattention. But how could she possibly concentrate with Blaec d’Lucy sitting beside her?

  “Nay... thank you,” she said with as much aplomb as she could summon, and her gaze was drawn momentarily toward the Dragon. She could not help herself—it was impossible to sit next to the devil and not feel him so profoundly. Her heart raced as she took in his swarthy complexion. He was so dark, he reminded her of the Saracen. And the scar high upon his cheek... she wondered how he’d received it, for she’d not noticed it before now. It could quite easily have been mistaken for a dimple were it not so high, for it seemed to appear only when he smiled.

  Dominique stiffened, realizing that he was smiling now, however sardonically though it might be, and very likely at her expense.

  “Lady Dominique?” she heard him whisper, saw his beautiful lips move, and her heart leapt into her throat. Those same lips curved so arrogantly. “If you are quite through gawking—” he gestured toward the carver “—the lad wishes to know if you’d care for aught else.” He cocked a brow at her.

  Dominique’s cheeks heated till she feared she would swoon. “Nay,” she choked, and averted her gaze at once, thinking him the worst churl she’d ever known. Had she thought him the like of his father? Nay, the man was worse! Infinitely worse. One need only look at him, insultingly dressed for war at table, to know that.

  And she’d do well to remember it.

  She eyed him circumspectly. It was rumored he was bastard born—conceived on the same day as his fair-haired brother, though sired by another man—yet that Gilbert d’Lucy had accepted him despite that fact. She wondered if it was true. It seemed an incredible tale, yet, indeed, it was argued that it was possible for two men to impregnate a single woman at the same time... thus siring twins who bore little resemblance to each other upon birth. She wondered of that, too, for no two brothers could ever have been so disparate as were these two.

  She heard him chuckle beneath his breath—curse him again, a thousand times curse him!—the sound like thunder to her ears. It shook her to her very soul. Truth to tell, if she didn’t know better, she’d thi
nk he’d guessed at her thoughts—thought that was ludicrous. Still, the way he looked at her made her feel as though he knew her private thoughts.

  She cared not a whit for him, she told herself. If he’d led a cursed life, it was no more her concern than... well, than whether he trusted her, or not. Graeham seemed to, and that was all that mattered.

  The meal proceeded in discomfiting silence. Trying in vain to listen to her brother’s discourse and endeavoring to ignore the man at her side, Dominique stabbed at her trencher with her bone-handled poniard. But no matter how hard she tried, she could not quite remove the Dragon from her thoughts. Sweet Mary, but when he chewed, she could hear the faint yet deliberate sound of it—and could not keep herself from imagining the strength in those very masculine jaws of his... the deceptive, soft-looking suppleness of his lips. The sound of his chewing only intensified with his brooding silence, until Dominique could little bear it. Her nerves were already fraught. And so the meal persisted until abruptly she felt the heat of his breath upon her neck, and she froze.

  “You might stop now,” he informed her smartly. “I do believe ‘tis already deceased, demoiselle.”

  It took Dominique an instant to realize what he meant, and then at once she cast her poniard down upon the table, chagrined to have been caught mutilating her meal. And again she heard him chuckle low and finally lost her composure. It was all she could do not to cry out as she rose from her seat. Never in her life had she been so affected by any man!

  Apologetically she glanced at William first, then at Graeham. “I—if you will forgive me, my lord—William... I-I find myself much too weary to dine this eve. I am simply not hungry.”

  “Of course,” Graeham allowed, his expression empathetic, if somewhat surprised. “Perhaps in the morn you shall feel more rested?” he suggested with concern.

  She nodded much too quickly. “Aye... perchance in the morn,” she agreed.

  Graeham nodded and made a motion with his hand, dismissing her. “Blaec, see m’lady to her chamber.”