Once Upon a Knight Read online

  "God's teeth, Blaec, but dry yourself next time!" Graeham swiped at his cheek.

  Blaec's expression turned sober. "Graeham," he said, "what if I were to tell you it was otherwise? What if I said harm was done?"

  Testing its weight, Graeham swung his sword, and then shrugged. "I suppose, then, I would inquire as to whether you enjoyed it." He chuckled at Blaec's answering expression, changing the subject. "Fainthearted, am I?" He laughed richly. "What, then, do you think of this?" Grinning, he struck the first deft blow.

  With practiced ease, Blaec deflected it, returning a ruthless one of his own. God's truth, but Graeham's lightheartedness evaded him. The last thing he needed was Graeham's unwavering trust, or his sanction—and his fury, while tempered, was far from dissolved. More swiftly than he could have anticipated, Graeham shunted it, his expression turning serious with the force of the impact.

  As though he'd read Blaec's thoughts, Graeham said between breaths, "I trust you, Blaec."

  Blaec cracked another grim smile. Pride and pleasure bled into his anger at seeing his brother's rarely exhibited mastery. It doused his fury momentarily until he recalled the feel of his brother's bride beneath him, and guilt and rage filled him anew. With a savage outcry, he whirled, striking another blow, less controlled this time, though still with confidence that Graeham could manage it. He smiled when Graeham parried so deftly. "You have been practicing, I see."

  "I'm pleased you noticed," Graeham said, his smile engaging.

  "How could I not when you made it a point to say so?"

  "God's bones," Graeham lamented. "And I thought 'twas my skill that alerted you to the fact."

  Blaec laughed, low. "Pity you thought so," he returned, unable to resist the sportive quip. Too many years of raillery lay between them.

  Once again metal screeched as blades clashed, tangled, sparked. They struck and parried, the contest continuing until both were winded. Blaec, emotionally torn, lacked his typical finesse. He knew too well that to allow one's emotions to rule obscured one's judgment and could prove a lethal mistake were one's opponent not one's brother. Still, he could scarcely help himself when the feel of her lips crushed beneath his own still taunted him, made a mockery even now of his self-control. By God, he had none!

  Not now.

  Not then.

  And God damn him to hell for it!

  Again he struck, wildly this time, blinded by self-contempt. Another. And another.

  Graeham parried each, and with a hoarse cry, spun and caught Blaec's blade, striking hard, and knocking the sword from Blaec's grasp more easily than he should have been able to. It flew, striking the ground with a thud, its silver blade reflecting the sun with painful brilliance.

  Stunned murmurs filled the air.

  For an instant their gazes linked, held, and then Blaec turned away, uncertain as to why he had released the hilt so easily. Perhaps he'd hoped Graeham would finish him once and for all. And perhaps he'd known his emotions were getting out of hand.

  "I trust you," Graeham reiterated, heaving in a weary breath and tossing their father's sword down between them.

  Blaec stared at it, his fingers going unconsciously to his cheek as he doubled over. Bracing his hands upon his thighs, he gulped in air, muttering a curse as he swiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve, averting his face. He was fully aware that everyone stared. He was mad. There could be no other explanation for this. He was tired, aye, but so was Graeham. Damn the both of them. The night had been too long... and he was still too angry with Beauchamp's treachery.

  Not to mention his own.

  Christ... if he could but prove Beauchamp's guilt...

  "Lauds!" came an unwelcome cheer. "Lauds to the both of you!"

  Blaec had no need to turn to know to whom the voice belonged. The hairs upon the back of his nape prickled and stood on end.

  William chortled at his back. "Especially to you, Graeham." He laughed outright.

  Graeham straightened.

  So, too, did Blaec, meeting Graeham's gaze briefly, acknowledging the cautioning glance his brother flashed him, before turning to face the man he was beginning to loathe more, even, than he did himself at the moment.

  What he didn't expect was to find her in accompaniment, and he started, tensing visibly at the sight of her.

  Her hair was damp still, but plaited now to keep the locks from her face. Coiled about her head, it appeared darker, though the drier strands stood out like rich copper veins. A few escaped confinement and fell in damp ringlets about her face. Her cheeks were rosy, and growing more so by the instant—a testament to her guilt, he thought. Of his own. Their gazes met, and hers darted quickly away.

  He didn't give her the luxury of turning away. Satisfaction filled him at seeing that she'd changed her dress. Yet he could only be so pleased with the victory, for her new gown left little to the imagination. The fine gold sendal was so gossamer from years of use that it clung to her like dew upon a blade of grass—the effect no less mystical, and every morsel as enticing. Like minuscule, glistening beads to the eyes of a thirsting man. And the girdle she wore only served to emphasize her narrow waistline. The cords, with their silky ends, hung to her hem, tangling with her limbs as she walked, accentuating the long length of her legs and even delineating them.

  The sight of her made him shudder in remembrance.

  Graeham must have noted his reaction, and hers, for within the instant, he was at Blaec's back. "You cannot usurp that which is freely yielded."

  Blaec turned to regard his brother and found Graeham pensive. His brows knit. Surely he could not have meant...

  "Let him not provoke you, Blaec. The man's an officious boor."

  Blaec nodded, stunned at what he thought he'd heard, and watched as, with his politic smile in place, Graeham edged his way past him to greet their disdained guests.

  "Beauchamp," Graeham bellowed in greeting. But his gaze was upon his bride, Blaec noted with some discomfort. He shifted, crossing his arms when his brother lifted Dominique's hand and pecked it respectfully. She didn't look up at Graeham at first, and when she did, nervously, her gaze skittered toward Blaec.

  Blaec clenched his jaw, but didn't look away. He could not, for she bewitched him even now, though he knew the dangers. She did look away, though he continued to stare, unable to help himself. In the bright light of the midmorn sun, she was no less lovely—despite that hers was not the celebrated beauty. Nor was she dark like the Eastern women. Hers was an indefinable beauty... a kind of radiance that invited more than a glance. Something about her mesmerized, though no one feature stood out. Even knowing her brother observed them, he could not tear his gaze away. Like some beast of prey, he could feel William's razor-sharp gaze riveted upon him, watching shrewdly.

  "I do declare..."

  Blaec lifted his head, meeting the ice-blue gaze directly, eyes that were far too familiar now in their likeness to his sister's.

  William smiled, a cold smile despite its brilliance. "I thought I would never witness the mighty Dragon trounced so soundly," he said dryly, his lips twisting with his mirth. "If the troubadours could but spy you now, d'Lucy."

  Blaec said nothing. Unlike Graeham, he had no use for diplomacy. Nor did he have the patience for it. Nor did he give a damn what the bloody lyrics had to say of him. In truth, no one could deny that his brother was better suited as earl—not in this—for like their father, Graeham had been born to politics. Still he refrained from responding, despite that William seemed to be waiting.

  Graeham broke in, in an attempt to change the subject. "Now that we are all present," he said, turning to regard Blaec, his brows flickering in question. Blaec instinctively understood what he asked. Too much alike did they think. He nodded almost imperceptibly, and Graeham's smile returned as he again faced their guests. "Well, then," he announced, "Off we go to hunt!"

  Chapter Twelve

  Dominique only wished she knew what exactly it was they were hunting.

  The look in
Blaec's eyes had been thoroughly chilling. Even now it caused her to shudder. And her brother—she eyed his brightly clad back skeptically—had insisted she carry an accursed crossbow when she had not the slightest notion how to use one. Why, she could not fathom, for even were her life in danger, she could not use it to save herself. She held it awkwardly now, trying not to lose it as she guided her mount and tried with all her might not to fall out of the saddle with her burden.

  Forsooth, but she was beginning to wonder that this alliance was not an alliance at all, but a treacherous game they played, instead. In truth, it felt like war. The tension amid the small hunting party was palpable, increasing by the instant, and Dominique could little bear it.

  Time and again, her gaze was drawn to Blaec. He rode ahead of her, ignoring her, though she knew full well that he was aware of all she did.

  He didn't trust her, she knew. That he loathed her was evident in the way he treated her... in the way he could not seem to bear even to look at her. He obviously felt it his duty to keep her within sight, yet he could not abide even to glance her way. Not once had he done so. Though still she could feel his regard acutely. Strange that... it was as though he watched her through eyes in the back of his head.

  The very notion made gooseflesh rise upon her limbs... breasts. It was disconcerting, for even as much as she loathed him, the very thought of him caused her body to react peculiarly.

  She tried not to think of him. Determinedly she turned her attention, instead, to the beauty of the parklands stretching before her. It was a lush land of woods and fields so abundant in its greenery that it seemed surreal. For at least a furlong beyond the castle walls, encompassing it fully, there was only grassland, a grass so verdant that it stunned the senses. Beyond the burned village, a backdrop of deeper green marked the beginning of the woodlands. Deep, dark, and misty, it took them near an hour's ride to pass through them entirely.

  And now, once again stretching before them, the land rolled gently, blue-green in its richness and sprinkled with wild lilies in stark yellows and whites. Splashes of violet marked the distant horizon, though she could not make out the source of the color—heather, perhaps. It was mesmerizing. So much so that for an instant Dominique managed to forget her impending marriage, as well as the odious brother, forget that she carried in her hands a loathsome weapon she had no intention of ever using, and was simply bewitched by it all. It filled her with a sense of beauty and homage so deep that it was nearly a tangible weight within her breast.

  God's truth, but seeing it now, she could well imagine that any man would covet it, fight for it, even... simply for the chance to breathe its air. Closing her eyes in pure pleasure, she filled her lungs with the scent of the land, the sweetest air she'd ever breathed.

  So captivated was she by the sight before her that she'd not even realized she'd reined in her mount in order to admire it more fully.

  It fair stole the breath from her lungs.

  It struck her then that two tracts of the same land could be so disparate. With a touch of bitterness she could but compare it to Amdel, an unripe expanse of earth that had helped to turn her father as bitter as the soil he would come to be buried within.

  It was no wonder her brother coveted this demesne so fiercely, while their father before him had treasured it, and the earl had fought so desperately to reclaim it. The very sight of it moved her to tears, for now... now, at last, it was conceivable that peace would come to it.

  For her children.

  And for their children after.

  Suddenly, desperately, this alliance made sense. If it did not for these men of war surrounding her—her brother included—then it certainly did to her.

  She eyed the Dragon sullenly. Somehow it was easy to see him as the root of all evil. She couldn't look at him now without remembering the things he'd made her feel. Even now, she could recall the imprint of his lips upon her own—her imagination perhaps, but shamefully real even so. She feared that never again would she be able to forget.

  Aye, in truth, she felt branded.

  And strangely warm—a warmth that had little to do with the heat of the sun, for it seemed to radiate from somewhere deep within. It was a warmth that heightened with the merest thought of him—her fingers went to her lips—of his kiss, his trembling lips and obvious restraint, the fury and passion that had swept through her as she lay beneath him, the feel of his maleness erect against her thigh... the heat of him. Her heart leapt at the memory.

  Aye, she was branded.

  God's love, but so much as she loathed him— and she did, she surely did—she craved his lips again. For the love of Christ, what sort of woman did that make her that she would lust for the brother of her betrothed? That kiss was Lucifer's own temptation, her damning bite of the serpent's fruit. And she was surely as weak as Eve... as weak as her mother had been.

  Was she fated as they were too?

  Her mother had made a mistake; she'd given in to these dark yearnings, but she'd not deserved the life she'd endured afterward. Her father had all but tortured her, and she had died a harrowed, broken woman.

  Dominique had not given in to them, per se, but she felt as though she had... because she had in her heart... and in her thoughts.

  The worst thing about it all was that she doubted this could ever be forgotten. If he stayed... if he did not... she thought she would remember it always. She would crave it always. In truth, she was thankful he seemed so disinclined to look at her, for she doubted she could ever face him again without blushing fiercely. And it didn't matter that she would never break her vows once they were made— in her heart she had already betrayed Graeham, for she could not imagine lying with him now without wondering of Blaec.

  God's truth, but she was no innocent to the pleasures shared between men and women. She'd heard too much ribaldry in her brother's home not to understand. Aye, and she'd spied too many lovers in carnal embraces to call herself ignorant. Even now, her heart raced at the image of Blaec, towering above her, unashamedly naked... She couldn't help but wonder what it would feel like to be possessed by him. Wholly.

  She shook the image away, and pressed her thighs together, willing away the sensations that threatened to spread through her nether regions. She was wanton and faithless. And she didn't even like the man she yearned to lie with—God have mercy on her soul.

  Her eyes flew to his back.

  As though he felt her regard, he suddenly turned to peer over his shoulder for the first time this day and her heart somersaulted violently. No one else seemed to have noticed that she lagged behind. The rest rode on, conversing lightly. He did not. He halted, letting the rest of the party pass him by, and then he turned to meet her gaze fully over the distance, his own impugning. In that instant it was as though only the two of them existed.

  Dominique stifled a gasp at the intense, burning look in his eyes—a boundless knowing look that made her heart vault into her throat. Like some macabre rider, he whirled his destrier about and trotted back toward her, his shoulders straight and stiff, despite the weight of his mail.

  Once again he'd worn the accursed armor—a slap in the face, for by it he rudely proclaimed that he considered this a matter of war. The only thing he lacked by way of armor was his helm and shield, for he wore both chausses and hauberk with the coif back as though it were everyday raiment.

  Dominique's first inclination was to turn her mount about and flee. But it was ludicrous. There was no reason to flee him. She'd done naught wrong. At least nothing he could know of... could he?

  She gave a little cry of distress as he reined in before her.

  His eyes were hard, assessing. "Finding the hunt less than enjoyable, Lady Dominique?"

  For an instant Dominique could not find her voice to speak. A breeze swept between them, whisking in the sweet scent of honeysuckle... and another more elusive scent. The scent of male sweat. Beads of perspiration dotted his upper lip, and another trickled down his temple, and she lapped at her lips, tas
ting his kiss even now.

  God's love, but it served him right to be uncomfortable, she thought with a measure of satisfaction. After all, it had been his choice to dress so oppressively. But he seemed not to notice, and that fact managed to dim her pleasure somewhat. With a touch of bitterness, she thought the accursed man made of stone for all that he seemed to feel.

  The same as his heart.

  Cold, hard stone.

  The same as his body, she could not help but recall.

  Her face heated. Still, she was piqued enough by his false concern that she arched a brow. "I didn't realize you cared overmuch for my pleasure, or lack thereof, my lord." She regretted her remark at once, fearing he might misconstrue it. Of a certain she was not referring to this morning's ordeal.

  He smiled coldly. "And what makes you think I ask because I care, demoiselle?" His destrier pranced impatiently beneath him. "I merely find myself wondering if you've some reason to be anxious over this hunt... You appear so... distraught."

  Dominique found herself staring at his lips, unable to keep herself from it; full lips, slightly down-turned, as though in an eternal scowl, and pale against his swarthy complexion—a complexion made all the darker by the shadow of his beard. And his black hair was as feral-looking as the man himself. And yet though too long, the shiny locks fared better than hers, for her own had long since begun to escape confinement, and now fell into her face in shameless abandon.

  Like her thoughts.

  If she thought her face warm before, it was warmer now. Her cheeks burned as though with fever. She averted her gaze, unable to vocalize the true source of her misery.

  He was the cause of her discontent.

  He was the bane of her existence.

  She shook her head, her heart tripping painfully.

  His tone bled with sarcasm. "Tis a guilty flush you bear."