Once Upon a Knight Page 59

God have mercy upon her soul.

  The truth horrified Dominique, for despite that she despised this man, she secretly thrilled to the feel of his body beneath her trembling fingers, his reaction to her touch. She had never truly understood how her mother could risk so much for the attentions of a stranger... until now. And now she understood everything. However, her mother had been driven into the arms of another man, and Dominique had not even that excuse, for she'd only been here at Drakewich for a single day, and had certainly not endured the suffering her mother had.

  This was by far worse than her mother had done.

  He lay back within the tub, his brawny chest revealed to her fully, magnificently sculptured from years of battle training. And the way that his muscles quivered at her merest touch... it gave her a heady sense of power, even as it dismayed her, for how could Graeham test her so? She didn't understand.

  Was it his intent to share her with his brother? Were they so depraved?

  Something fluttered deep in the pit of her belly at the question, and she shook her head, for it was she who was depraved—she, when the merest thought of this man excited her like no other. Graeham, after all, had but sent her to honor his brother.

  Blaec was merely enjoying his bath.

  And she?

  His eyes, glittering with jewel-hard brilliance, pierced her composure.

  Did he suspect her thoughts?

  Her heart pummeled wildly against her ribs as she dared to explore his shoulders, mindful not to glimpse down into the murky depths of the water. She dared not, for she didn't wish to know that he shared her depravity. Jesu, what would she do then?

  Lie with her enemy?

  She was not so ignorant that she didn't comprehend what her body was feeling; awakened, titillated... tempted... She closed her eyes, warding away the images that rose up like Eve's serpent to seduce her.

  But nay, he was not her enemy, but her betrothed. Oh, God, but not so either... it was his brother. Merciful Christ, but she was so confused. And she was trembling. She must gather herself at once. Stop thinking such thoughts.

  She must not dishonor herself as her mother had.

  Aye, she must simply do her duty and be done.

  More than anything, Dominique wanted to leap to her feet and bolt for the door, but she settled fully upon her knees instead, her hands shaking like leaves before a storm. She cried out as she dropped the soap into the water and squeezed her eyes shut, thrusting her hand down at once to retrieve it, groping frantically.

  Like a bolt of lightning from the darkness, his hand snaked out to seize her by the wrist, halting her search. Dominique cried out at the painful grip upon her wrist. Her eyes flew open to meet his; green and sapphire clashing. For an instant neither spoke, so charged was the air between them.

  When finally he did speak, his voice was both strained and full of malevolence. "Search no more," he cautioned her, his eyes blazing, "or I warrant you'll not relish what you find."

  Dominique felt as though the breath had been whisked from her lungs. She caught his meaning and her heart tumbled violently. She shook her head, averting her eyes. "S-Surely, my lord... I... I've no notion of what you speak."

  She felt his eyes upon her, skewering her. So desperate was she to flee him that had she a blade, she would have gladly sacrificed her arm.

  "My lord!"

  He said nothing, but continued to grip her wrist as though he would snap it in two did she so much as dare to move.

  "I-I was merely looking for the soap," she explained a little hysterically.

  "Were you?"

  At his doubtful tone, her gaze flew to his.

  His eyes glittered coldly, mocking her. ‘Truly?"

  For an instant, Dominique had no notion how to respond. His gaze accused her. She swallowed convulsively. He had guessed at her thoughts! The fury in his eyes made her feel as though he had. She began to pant softly, mentally grasping, her head pounding. What had she done? Merely search for the soap—naught else. She shook her head. Even if her thoughts had been wayward, she had done nothing untoward. Of that, she was certain.

  And he was hurting her.

  "Unhand me," she demanded suddenly, her eyes burning with unshed tears. He did not, and Dominique struggled to free herself, stopping only when it proved futile. She glared at him with unrepressed malice, her chest heaving with the exertion. "How dare you accuse me!" she cried out. "How dare you, when ‘tis you that has taken so much joy in this bathing! You," she shouted, "and not I!"

  His jaw twitched so imperceptibly that if Dominique had not been watching his granite-like features so intently, she would have missed it.

  Unknowingly, she'd struck at the truth.

  He had enjoyed it far too much.

  Furious with himself, Blaec released her. She drew away at once and made to rise. He allowed her to go, saying nothing, thinking morosely how close he'd come to dishonoring both himself and his brother. So badly had he wanted to take that fine little fist of hers and wrap its velvety softness around his shaft. Even now, the mere thought came near to unmanning him where he sat, and he wasn't certain whose was the greater sin: Graeham's for sending the wench to begin with, hers for tempting him so sorely, or his own for succumbing so easily.

  He didn't have to think on it long; it was his.

  Because even now, he wanted her.

  Even now.

  It twisted his gut, revolted him.

  "Wash yourself and be damned!" she charged him, hurling the rag at him furiously and turning to flee.

  It smacked him full in the face and he reacted instinctively, surging from the water in a black rage and catching her at once, jerking her back wrathfully.

  Against his better judgment, he held her too close.

  The scent of her tormented him.

  The feel of her burned him.

  His body reacted violently. Gritting his teeth, he warned, "'Tis said, demoiselle, that if one plays with fire... one gets burned. You are straying dangerously close to the flame."

  She lifted her chin defiantly. "You do not frighten me," she said fiercely, struggling to free herself.

  "Nay?"

  "Nay. I know you are beholden to your brother. You would do naught to harm his bride. Now, unhand me," she demanded. "You are wet—and you are wetting me!"

  He lifted a brow. "You think I would not behave with dishonor, demoiselle?"

  "I know you would no—"

  He thrust her violently away. She stumbled backward, tripping upon the bed. "Then you know nothing," he snarled, following her and leaping upon her, pinning her to the bed before she could rise.

  "You are wet," she protested, panting, gasping for breath. "Get off!"

  Water dripped from him, soaking her bliaut. Against his will, his eyes took in the damp fabric at her breast, the way her nipples strained against it, uplifted, heaving, tempting him, teasing. "I would venture, demoiselle—" His gaze returned to her face "—a soaking is the least of your concerns just now." He met her sapphire gaze with abject honesty.

  "Let me be!"

  Let her be? The bloody seductress. She squirmed and bucked against him as though she meant to entice him. And she succeeded, for a madness claimed him in that instant. A madness like never before, too aware was he of the soft body twisting beneath him. Seizing a handful of her hair, he thrust her head backward into the bed, forcing her still, and then, unable to help himself, he covered her mouth with his own, pressing his lips full against hers, his mouth closed, his lips trembling, some part of him still painfully aware that he could not give in to his desire.

  For the love of Christ, she was his brother's bride.

  He muttered a curse through clenched teeth, but the word was barely recognizable—more a savage snarl. Quaking, his mouth covering hers, pressing until his teeth cut against the inside of his own lips, he saw his brother's image rear up before him, and he dared not part his traitorous lips, dared not kiss her intimately. He lay there atop her, instead. His eyes closing, he shudder
ed with an impossible determination to restrain himself. Shuddered with need.

  His sex was full between them, evidence neither of them could deny.

  He didn't bother trying. She whimpered, and he murmured feverishly against her lips, "Tell me now that you are unafraid, demoiselle." How could she not be, when he was suddenly terrified of himself? His eyes speared her. "Tell me, too, that you are unaffected," he heard himself demand, his voice strange to his ears.

  She said nothing, merely stared, wide-eyed.

  But she didn't deny him. God...

  He prayed she would.

  Damn him, but he could not help himself. She didn't deny him. His desire too great to withstand, he thrust his tongue into the depths of her mouth, reveling in the sweet, heady taste of her, if only for the merest instant... the briefest... most extraordinary instant. He was lost.

  It would be so easy to give in to the madness, to lift up her skirts and bury himself there. It would be so easy. God help him, he could almost imagine the way it would feel. She tilted her pelvis, and he groaned with the exquisite pain, following her, too aware of his own nakedness.

  Too aware that beneath her dress, there would be no barriers between them aside from her maidenhood.

  And it belonged to his brother.

  Dominique could do nothing but cry out.

  Even had she not been pinned so ruthlessly to the bed, the rigidness of him against her was too shocking. Too real. She closed her eyes, seduced by the feel of his heart pounding against her ribs, tripping her own, his mouth upon hers. Closing her eyes, she felt every heated, powerful inch of him. Never before had she experienced such a terrifying, exhilarating instant of longing.

  "In truth," he rasped, jerking away and turning his face, as though to gain hold of himself, "though naught has happened here between us... neither of us can deny what has transpired." Beads of perspiration flecked his upper lip. She knew it was the sweat of his body, because she could taste it still upon her tongue. His eyes, when he faced her once more, were swirling with torment. She lapped her lips nervously, swallowing as he stared down at her. "Can we, demoiselle?"

  Dominique could not find her voice to deny him, for he spoke the truth. She was the last to understand what there was between them, but there was something... something impossible to deny. Something she must deny.

  "Nay," he continued scornfully, his body shaking, his face gone bloodless. "But neither shall we speak of it again," he commanded, "for you are correct in one thing, Lady Dominique. I will not dishonor my brother. This shall not pass again. Stay the hell away from me, for I am only a man—and you—you are a bloody temptress!" With that he shoved away from her.

  Straightening to his full height, he towered above her, gloriously naked, the sight of him as shocking as the feel of him had been.

  She had not tempted him, but neither could she speak to deny it. Nor did she dare move. She could do naught but stare, wide-eyed, as he proceeded to dress himself, despite that his eyes condemned her. When she did not look away, he jerked his gaze away suddenly, as though the sight of her disgusted him, yet she was too aware that his body declared otherwise.

  He was no more immune to her than she was to him.

  Bewildered, she touched her fingers to her lips. Already they had begun to swell and were tender to the touch.

  When he was fully dressed, he turned to address her once more, his eyes glittering dangerously. "One more thing, demoiselle... If you ever wear that gown again, I swear to you that I shall rend it strip by strip from your body— regardless of where we are. Regardless that you are my brother's bride. Understood?"

  Still dazed by what had transpired between them, Dominique said, her voice trembling, "Why? Why does my gown offend you so? Why should you care what I wear?"

  "Because it was stolen from me!"

  He turned to go, and she found she could move again at last. "You lie!" she accused him. "'Twas a gift from my brother!" Quaking, her limbs feeling as though they had less substance than water, she started to rise from the bed, only to find herself arrested when he turned to face her yet again. For an instant he merely glared at her, and then he turned and stalked toward her.

  "I never lie, demoiselle, and I never threaten without intention!"

  Dominique didn't wait to discover his intent this moment. She turned and fled, scrambling over the bed, but he was much too quick. She gave a hapless shriek as he caught her about the waist and suddenly lifted her up, into his arms.

  "Release me at once, you! You! Ayeeahh—" Her protest ended abruptly as she was dumped unceremoniously into the bath. Water cascaded up each side of her, enveloping her, sucking her down into the depths of the tub, soaking her thoroughly. She glared up at him wrathfully. "Beast! How dare you!"

  His mouth curved with the first traces of genuine humor she'd ever glimpsed upon his lips. Nevertheless, Dominique was far from amused. She wanted to curse him to damnation, if only she could, for he'd all but ruined her gown—the beautiful cloth her brother had brought back for her from London, the only gift he'd ever given her. She felt like raking the demon's eyes out as he hovered above her so smugly.

  "A small guarantee," he said glibly, his ensuing smile deepening the scar high upon his cheek and revealing the single dimple upon the other. They did share the distinguishing trait, she thought irrationally.

  Without further ado, or explanation, he turned and left her, chuckling richly at her expense.

  "Blackguard!" she shouted, even as she slipped farther into the tub with the effort. Reaching beneath her, she jerked the odious lump of soap out from under her, glaring at it wrathfully, and then she hurled it at the door as it closed, taking great satisfaction in imagining the Dragon's head as her target instead.

  Chapter Eleven

  Clenching his fists at the sight of his brother sparring with Nial, his cocky young squire, Blaec made his way toward the scrimmaging pair, barely cognizant of the crowd of onlookers who parted before his wrathful glare. His emotions were at war, for while he was pleased to see Graeham training rather than on his knees at chapel, he also had the overwhelming desire to strike a fist to his brother's face. Her doing, for not since their nose-wiping days had he experienced such a senseless urge.

  Nial was the first to spy him. The youth's smile vanished and he lowered his sword—a testament to the fierceness of Blaec's expression, for the lad of usual, with his indomitable spirit, was intimidated by little. Proof was in the way he'd bantered so carelessly with his lord only seconds before. Not so now. He looked much as though he would soil his braies.

  Graeham, spying Nial's unsettled countenance, turned to face Blaec, but unlike the youth's, his expression twisted with unconcealed amusement. "Ye God!" he exclaimed, chuckling as he took in Blaec's dripping wet head and tunic. "What in creation happened to you?"

  With some effort, Blaec unclenched the fist at his side. "Why is it you think something has happened?" he asked with deceptive calm.

  "Oh... well..." Graeham shrugged, and seemed to be battling the urge to laugh.

  Blaec wasn't in the mood. He cursed silently.

  "Perhaps 'tis because you appear as though you've been chewed and spat out," Graeham offered, and let loose a hearty chuckle.

  Renewed fury surged through Blaec. "I was restless," he said tersely. Only the muscle ticking at his jaw betrayed him as he eyed the sword his brother held. "In fact, I came down to spar with you." He cocked a brow in challenge, a self-mocking smile curving his lips as he disclosed, "You might say I couldn't resist." And he wondered wryly if Graeham understood the double entendre.

  For an instant Graeham's expression was bewildered. "Aye, well... that explains it," he announced with considerable humor. "You were so eager to join us that you did not even take the time to dry yourself?"

  Nial barked with laughter, a startled sound that quickly dwindled to a nervous groan when Blaec spared him a glance. Not trusting himself to speak, he smiled grimly at the youth and raked his fingers through dripping loc
ks, lifting them up and out of his face. He turned to Graeham. "Seems so," he yielded.

  A grin spread across Graeham's features. He turned to Nial. "Well, then, lad, stand aside! Time to watch and learn," he declared with a chuckle. And in a whispered aside, he added, "He wants to whip my arse, I think."

  Quiet male laughter echoed about them. Nial nodded quickly, immediately doing as he was bid, his expression clearly disbelieving that anyone should jest over such a likely prospect—brothers or nay. But Graeham's eyes twinkled as he turned again to face Blaec, undaunted. And then suddenly his expression was sober. He tipped his head, the faintest glimmer still evident in his deep brown eyes. "First," he said, "you should understand that no harm was done..."

  For the first time in their lives, silence was a barrier between them.

  "You are my brother."

  Blaec stood unmoving, fully conscious of the fact that there were too many witnesses present for him to betray the truth. Guilt plagued him. Harm was done. It was an assertion only the two could comprehend. An acquittal. Yet it served only to infuriate Blaec all the more. Harm was done. He swallowed, the knot in his throat bobbing as he faced his brother... his friend. God save him, he'd sampled betrayal, and the taste of it was bitter, indeed. Though Graeham didn't realize, he had every right to cleave him in two. And if he didn't wish to try, then Blaec damned well did.

  "I understand perfectly," Blaec said, forcing a lighthearted smile. "You're much too fainthearted to lift that weapon against me."

  Graeham chuckled, and shook his head. "Lacking, perhaps... but fainthearted, never." He lifted his sword as evidence. "You might regret this," he added.

  "Really?"

  "Really. I've been practicing, you see." He laughed when Blaec still made no move to unsheathe his sword. "I see the very notion has you quaking in your boots."

  Blaec chuckled despite himself. "Give it your best," he charged him, and with misleading calm, unsheathed his own sword, wielding it.

  To any man's eyes, this would be a simple contest of skills, naught more, one of many between them, but Blaec felt an underlying violence at the notion that his brother had purposely thrust him so near the edge. And guilt. He could never discount the guilt. Preparing himself, he shook his head, sending spatters of his bathwater flying into Graeham's face.