Besides Stephen was unlikely to suspect William when there was already the promise of alliance between him and d'Lucy. Nor did he believe Stephen ultimately cared, for it was common knowledge already that upon his death, England would be forfeit to the empress' heir. Why then should Stephen concern himself with petty wars?
And then... when Alyss poisoned Graeham so soon after the ceremony, once again he would be safe from suspicion at Stephen's court. Of course, he would play the wounded brother and claim he'd not even been apprised of the ceremony. Perhaps he would suggest—with great regret, of course—that there may still have been some enmity on Graeham's behalf toward him. And only then he would express his sorrow. Afterward, with Stephen's blessings he would go and reclaim his sister as his ward. And along with her, his rightful lands.
Just as simple as that.
Still, it seemed an eternity before it would all come to pass. And Alyss was still not Dominique. Be that as it may, it would be easy enough to pretend in the darkness of the chamber. Sighing against Alyss' plump, moist breast, he remembered a time when he and Dominique had been close. She'd been so young and tender then... the only one who had ever made him feel loved. All those times he'd trained during the sweltering summers—damn his father, for he'd not even had the regard to foster him— Dominique had wiped his brow with such sisterly affection.
His face heated even after all these years as he remembered that he'd walked about the first years of manhood plagued with guilt for the lust he bore his young sister. And then his father had mockingly confronted him—because he had been so obvious in his pining.
God's blood, but his father had leapt at the opportunity to tell him that he, too, sometimes fancied Dominique within his own bed. Aye and that was when Henry Beauchamp had first expressed his doubt that he'd sired Dominique—perhaps to ease his own conscience, for it was too much to hope that it might be true. It was evident to any who might spy them together that father and daughter had the same look about them. It was that same look William and Dominique shared, as well.
Hearing his own contemptible desires upon his fathers lips had disgusted William so that he'd heartily denounced his own dark yearnings. Enraged, he'd dared to strike his sire in the belly for the quip. And then to prove him wrong, William had cast Dominique aside and out of his mind—as though she'd been no more significant to him than the mother he'd grown to despise.
With her infidelity, their damned mother had made his father bitter, and unappeasable... yet it was her saving grace that she'd borne Dominique before her death... for the only one thing William loved with a greater passion than his hatred for the d'Lucys... was his lovely little sister.
No longer did he feel the guilt. On the contrary... he'd long ago accepted that he was his father's son. Aye, for if it meant having Dominique, he didn't care. The merest thought of either of the d'Lucys touching her burned at his gut, and the only one thing keeping him sane enough to follow through with this pretense was the thought that neither Graeham nor Blaec was long for this world. And by the eyes of Lucifer, the very thought of their deaths made up for so much.
It was nearly daybreak when the brothers returned. Graeham, weary as he was, made his way to the chapel. As far as Blaec was concerned, the one in need of prayer was not his brother, but William Beauchamp, for if he encountered the fiend just now, he thought he might send him straight to hell, where he belonged.
Fury alone gave him the strength to mount the steps to his bedchamber. Soiled and sweat-soaked from the night's ordeal, he cursed beneath his breath, for at the moment, he felt acutely the weight of his mail.
The fire had been contained, but it had taken all of the night to put out the flames and to salvage what they could of the villein's huts. While there had been few casualties, so many had been left without homes that he and Graeham had felt it their responsibility to remain with them throughout the night, offering what protection and aid they could while the folk rallied their kin and attempted to save their belongings.
Although their protection had been unnecessary, for the craven bastards who had set the fires had slipped away, into the night woods, without leaving so much as a clue as to their identity. Nor had they returned. No matter. Blaec had no need for evidence when his intuition told him exactly who it was who had sabotaged them. Beauchamp. The very name made the hairs at the back of his nape stand on end. And all the while, the bastard slept peacefully under Drakewich's roof. If Blaec could so much as prove his guilt... he would carve the heart from his body and feed it to the buzzards.
Blind with rage, he didn't bother to knock as he entered the antechamber, though once he set foot within, he wished he'd given warning. The maid, Alyss, though alone in her bed, lay replete and without blankets to conceal her. Her gown had been rent down the front, fully exposing her plentiful bosom, and from the looks of them, bruised and swollen, she'd been well used the night before. Likely by Beauchamp himself, for Blaec was certain none of his own men would dare leave her so damaged. Every one of them understood that the Beauchamps—useless as they were—were under his protection. And that included their servants. Damn Beauchamp, he thought sourly. The bastard seemed to be making himself at home, even while he wreaked havoc outside these walls.
The maid didn't stir even as he closed the door, and he scowled, averting his eyes to give her what privacy he could. He didn't delay, but went straight through to his own chamber, once again opening the door to find a sleeping form. This time within his own bed.
He wasn't prepared for the sight of her, lying so serenely atop his tumbled sheets and blankets. It sent a charge through him the likes of which he'd never experienced in his life. He endeavored to ignore her, turning askance from the bed and going to the window. The shutters had been left wide open—no doubt so she could watch her brother's handiwork, he reminded himself bitterly. He closed them, only to turn and find her stretching like a cat in her sleep. Against his will, he could feel the blood slithering into his nether regions, hot and rousing.
She moaned softly, and he couldn't help but consider the sounds she would make during lovemaking. Would she be seductively quiet but violent in her passion? Or would she be sensual and vocal, telling him with her soft sounds and provocative gestures precisely what it was she wanted from him?
The merest notion sent white-hot lust exploding through his veins, burning hotter than the torrent he'd only just fought. Only this one was far more dangerous, and he mentally thrust the images from his mind.
Christ! He had no right to these thoughts—nor should he have come here, he acknowledged. He should have sent a servant for his garments, instead. Still, he was here now and he couldn't help himself; he went to the bed and stood staring down upon her.
Dressed in soft, white pleated cambric, she looked every bit the virginal bride that her brother claimed her to be. And her hair... while it had burned copper beneath the late day sun, it now appeared dark and rich in the twilight and held a healthful gleam that was evident even in her skin. Even her brows—dark and perfectly arched—were a work of artistry against her creamy flesh.
It was no wonder William had waited so long to offer her in wedlock, for with her brand of beauty, she was as great a prize as Jerusalem itself. No doubt it behooved William to hold back for the best contract, for age, as with fine wine, could only make her more valuable a prize. She had that look about her. And balls of the saints! Anticipation of the marriage bed alone could unman even the best of men.
Then again... he was not the best of men... and he wasn't foolish enough to pretend it. A muscle ticked at his jaw as he watched her.
Unbinding the laces that secured the ventail, he let the partial mask slip from his face and then he shoved the mail coif back from his sweat-dampened hair.
According to his father, he was naught but a bastard. And if he'd thought himself free from envy and bitterness, he knew now it was not true, for as he stood staring down at the woman within his bed, the mere thought of his brother touching her, loving her,
filled him with a greater wrath, even, then that he'd experienced at seeing the huts afire this eve.
Disgusted with himself, he turned from the bed and went to his coffers, opening the largest and removing from it a black tunic and breeches. God's truth, but he was in need of a bath to set him rights—to cool his ardor. And that was precisely what he intended to do—the sooner he left this God-forsaken chamber, the better.
Chapter Seven
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 k
not 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.
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