Dominique sighed. She'd heard, though not through William, that her brother had taken a fancy to Alyss during a visit he'd once paid to her father at Kester. Alyss had come to Amdel the following summer after her first blood.
"At any rate," Alyss continued, breaking into her thoughts. The maid glanced up from her task, smiling. "I should share with you something a very wise woman once said to me."
Dominique could not help but return the maid's smile, though it failed to reach her heart. "What wise woman is that?" she asked somberly.
Alyss' smile deepened, reaching clear into her gentle brown eyes. "My mother," she replied softly, and with reverence. And once again her expression was dreamy. "She would say to me... ‘Alyss, dearling... sometimes a woman must take matters into her own hands. She must do what she must.'" Her eyes glazing slightly, she nodded, meeting Dominique's gaze. "'Tis what she said to me, all right, though I didn't understand it then."
Dominique felt a momentary pang of loss; both for Alyss and for herself. Her own mother had never lived long enough to dispense any such advice. And Alyss... Dominique didn't know which was worse, to have a mother's love, and then lose it, or to never have known it at all. "And do you now? Understand, that is."
Alyss' eyes shadowed as she returned her attention to warming the mead. "At times I do," she said without glancing up again, her voice without inflection.
"Alyss..." Dominique's heart lurched at the question she felt obliged to ask. If her brother had been the one to harm Alyss... she just didn't think she could bear it. "I was wondering…" Her gaze averted to the window, and then came back to scrutinize Alyss. "The bruises," she prompted. "How—"
Alyss' head snapped up, and her eyes were once more like those of a caged beast. She shook her head. "Do not ask me, m'lady, for I will not speak of—"
"Ladies?"
Startled by the unexpected male voice, both Alyss and Dominique glanced up to spy Graeham standing there, his expression one of surprise. Dominique's heart tumbled a little. She'd known he would have to pass this way in order to find his chamber, and she'd hoped to speak with him at long last. But he didn't appear overly pleased with their presence in his solar. Nevertheless, she bolstered herself, knowing they could not go on much longer as they had.
"My lord," she began, "I... I had hoped..." Her gaze skittered toward Alyss. With her eyes, Alyss beckoned her on, urged her to continue. "Aye, well..." Her gaze returned to Graeham. "You see, we... we..."
"We were warming the mead for you, m'lord," Alyss interjected softly, without glancing up from her task.
"Aye!" Dominique exclaimed at once. "Please, please, my lord, do come in and sit awhile." She rushed forward when he removed his mantle, and offered to take it from him. He hesitated, holding it back from her. Dominique peered up at him, refusing to shed a single tear if he refused her, but her hand clutched the rich woolen cloth with a desperation that shamed her. To her relief, he released it into her keeping, saying nothing, nodding. She hurried with it into his chamber, beyond the screen, and placed it upon his bed, returning within the instant.
Hope sprang within her as she stood there staring at the man promised to become her husband. Perhaps they could make it work, after all? Perhaps all was not lost. "We were... wondering, my lord... i-if you had spices... for the wine?"
His chest heaved, as though with a weary sigh. "In the pantry," he relented. And then he turned and made his way to, and seated himself within, the nearest chair, facing them.
Giddy with excitement, Dominique raced to the pantry, giving it a cursory search and removing from it honey and nutmeg and, a little reluctantly, a small container of vin aigre in the absence of pearmain, or bitter fruit. Racing back, she brought them to Alyss, but Alyss, to her surprise, refused them. Instead, the maid rose, requesting her leave, complaining of a sour stomach and mumbling something of women doing what they must. And then, with nary another word, she departed the chamber. Dominique smiled as she watched Alyss go, head bowed and clutching her belly, thinking her a crafty soul indeed.
"Well..." Dominique's gaze reverted to Graeham. She smiled shyly. "My lord... I pray you've a hearty stomach," she said with an awkward attempt at humor. "I'm sorry to say I've not Alyss' talents."
Graeham smiled haggardly. "We shall manage," he answered with a terse nod. He sat, watching her, as though it pained him to remain in the same room alone with her.
It didn't matter. Dominique refused to be thwarted. If it pained him, so be it. He would bear it—as she had borne his lack of attention these weeks past. "Aye, well... it will be done in no time at all," she promised, and smiled brightly. At once she took over where Alyss had left off, lifting up the pitcher by the wooden handle and setting it carefully over the flame. While Graeham sat, watching, she stirred in the nutmeg, and then the honey, tasting it at intervals.
To her dismay, the silence between them lengthened, and became an awkward thing, but Dominique was determined to find a bridge between them.
"I am sorry, Lady Dominique, if this has been difficult for you," Graeham said suddenly.
Setting down the pitcher with trembling hands, Dominique left off her task to face him, uncertain of what to say. His eyes seemed as tormented as her own. Truly he was a handsome man, even more so when he smiled. Why couldn't she make him smile the way he had that first time?
"My lord... I just don't understand."
His sigh was weary, rueful. "I know."
"Have I—"
"It is naught you've done," he broke in. "In truth, I wish I could explain—" he shook his head "—but I can't."
"I see," Dominique said, but she didn't see at all. She lowered her head, lifting up the pitcher of mead, tasting from it. "‘Tis too sweet," she said softly, trying to remain composed.
Silence.
Dominique swallowed her pride. Her voice wavered. "My lord... I wish to be a good wife to you."
He was silent a moment longer, and then said with quiet certainty, "You shall be a good wife, Lady Dominique. I never doubted it."
Heartened by his remark, Dominique faced him once more, and his eyes were warm, but regretful.
"All will turn out as it should," he promised, nodding, his eyes filling with some unnamed emotion. "I never meant to hurt you, Lady Dominique. Please remember that."
Dominique's spirits fell. Why did she feel it was an apology for something yet to come? Nodding, afraid to hear any more, she lifted up, though reluctantly, the pitcher of vin aigre. Her hands quivering, she poured a meager amount within... and then... God help her, she heard his voice below, and his ensuing footfalls as he climbed the stairs.
Her heart leapt into her throat.
A myriad of emotions swept through Dominique as she awaited his appearance in the doorway: disappointment, terror, and aye... whether she wished to deny it, or not... anticipation. Her belly fluttered nervously.
Graeham rose at once to greet him, embracing him in the doorway and clapping him enthusiastically on the back. Blaec responded in kind... until he spied Dominique over Graeham's shoulder... and his hand stilled in midair.
Their gazes met, locked.
That same look passed between them: dread, turmoil, denial... guilt... too many emotions to name.
He turned abruptly away, patting his brother, embracing him more fully.
"'Tis quite a cozy scene I've discovered here," he said lightly, casting Dominique a suddenly dispassionate glance. She swallowed convulsively, for with little more effort than it had taken him to blink, he'd cast all emotion from his dark visage—at least where she was concerned. His eyes, while they were upon his brother, were full of genuine affection.
What a fool she was to attach herself to this man! She averted her gaze, though her heart continued to thump traitorously.
"God's blood," Blaec complained, "but with no remorse at all, you send me to sleep on leaves and stones whilst you carry on in comfort with your bride." In her peripheral vision, she saw that he cuffed Graeham's arm lightly with a fist.
"Well done," he said. "'Tis about time."
"Guilty," Graeham countered. "I confess it."
"You confess far too much," Blaec remarked softly.
Watching them, Dominique had the distinct impression that their banter was less than mirthful though there was genuine affection between them; that much was evident in their easy manner and in their gazes. These two brothers—these twins from birth, who appeared nothing alike— shared much more than conception in a single womb. It seemed to her they shared, if not love, then a mutual admiration for each other. And both seemed equally protective of one another.
Graeham chuckled richly. "Perhaps, but who else would pray for your soul, my dear brother? You are lost without me,' he said glibly.
Blaec's lips curved slightly and he conceded a chuckle. "In truth I would be," he admitted without hesitation.
"There you have it, then," Graeham argued with good humor, and then he pivoted toward Dominique. "Lady Dominique! Bring forth a cupful of that warm, spiced mead for my weary brother."
It took Dominique an instant to realize that she was staring. Curse him, but he only seemed to grow more handsome every time she saw him. Even unshaven as he was, he was breathtaking. Nay, it was not the angelic beauty his brother possessed, but Alyss was right... he looked unmistakably a man. In truth, looking at him now, it was difficult to believe he'd ever been a boy, for his eyes were those of a man who'd witnessed far too much. They were the eyes of a man who'd lived a lifetime already, and they were in deep contrast with his otherwise youthful features.
She wondered how old he was, for he seemed in ways as ancient as sin. And in other ways... there was something nestled deep in his expression that made her yearn to reach out to him... comfort him.
Too dangerous were these thoughts—dangerous and reckless. Besides, he didn't need comforting, she was certain.
"... not a damned thing," she heard Blaec say crossly. "There was no sign of the bastards."
Once and for all, Dominique shook herself free of her private thoughts, and glanced down into the pitcher of simmering mead. And then she peered at the empty container of vin aigre still in her hand. A strangled sound escaped her. Sweet Christ, she'd emptied the vin aigre in its entirety into the pitcher!
"Lady Dominique?"
Merciful God—all of it. Wide eyed with the discovery, Dominique faced Graeham's inquiring gaze, her heart racing, her stomach knotting. "M-My lord!" she exclaimed.
"The mead," Graeham demanded. His pale brows drew together in disapproval. "Bring it."
"But... but, my lord!" Her mind raced for an excuse. "It is not done yet!"
"Ludicrous!" he said. "I've watched you give it exceptional care these past twenty minutes. If it warms any longer, there'll be naught left of it to drink. Bring it now."
Dominique gritted her teeth. She had to fight the urge to narrow her eyes at him, telling herself that it would serve him right did his brother die poisoned right before him. If he wanted her to feed his brother rancid mead, then so be it! "Very well, my lord," she answered. She straightened her spine. In fact she thought she might take great pleasure in witnessing such a scene. By the saints! They deserved one another, these two brothers! She set down the container, and using both hands, poured from the pitcher, filling the cup she'd left to one side full to the brim.
Pasting on her sweetest smile, she rose and conveyed the cup to Blaec, offering it to him. For an instant he simply stood gazing at her, and Dominique's temper flared. Her heart tripped as well, but she refused to be cowed by him, not this time.
Her chin rose a notch. "My lord... perhaps you would like me to spoon it to you, as well," she suggested impertinently, blinking prettily. By God, she'd like to pour it down his blessed throat! She found herself wishing fervently that Graeham d'Lucy had no brother at all. More than that even, she wished she'd never set eyes upon this accursed place!
He received it from her and Dominique immediately excused herself. She was no fool, and she had absolutely no intention of remaining here to see whether he collapsed to the floor, clutching at his throat in agony. Graeham relented with a nod, and Dominique hurried toward the door.
"Aarrgghhh!"
Hearing the strangled sound, Dominique froze. Though she willed her feet to run, flee, she could not move them from the place she stood to save her soul. She whirled to face him and found him gagging, spewing mead and swiping at his mouth.
"God's bloody teeth!" he exclaimed. "'Tis poison!"
"I can explain," she offered at once.
He spun to face her, his visage wrathful. "Please try, demoiselle!" He hurled the contents of the cup down upon the wooden floor at her feet.
Dominique took a step backward at the menacing look in his eyes. Her expression screwed. Her voice faltered. "I... I... it was an accident," she swore.
"Another bloody accident, demoiselle? How damned convenient!"
"I swear it is the truth, my lord. It was an accident," she insisted. "I was warming the mead when..." Sweet Mary, how could she explain? She was warming the mead when she heard his voice and started. The thought of seeing him again was so distressing that she'd spilled the entire contents of the vin aigre bottle without even realizing. She'd rather swallow boiling pitch. "Fine!" she snapped. "I tried to poison you, then! Believe it, if you will! I only wish I'd succeeded," she spat. And then without another word, she lifted her skirts and raced from the solar.
In her chamber, Dominique paced until the pads of her feet ached her. Trying to kill him, was she? Fie! At the moment, she'd dearly love to do more than try. "I cannot believe he would accuse me of such a thing, Alyss!"
"I'm certain he cannot believe it, m'lady," Alyss said reasonably.
"Nay?" Dominique faced her maid, her cheeks suffused with impotent rage. "You did not see his face. The man is bent upon finding me guilty of something—anything. I had hoped that once William left, he would cease his accusations once and for all—but nay!" There had to be a way to end this farce.
Perhaps once she and Graeham were wed, all would resolve itself. Dominique didn't see any way out of the betrothal. Not when her brother was so determined to see it through, and Graeham had already agreed. She just could not comprehend why Graeham seemed so guarded against her.
Perhaps he was uneasy with women? He'd never been unkind to her, not really. Perhaps he simply had no notion how to speak with her? Perhaps he was too abashed in her presence?
Suddenly she knew what she must do. The instant the inspiration came to her, she realized it was the only solution. If Graeham was too timid to come to her... then she would go to him.
Tonight.
And if he truly did not want her...
Well, then, she would discover that as well.
Chapter Eighteen
She waited until the household was aslumber, and then, following the trail of torches, made her way to the lord's chamber. Wearing naught but her linen chainse, she padded barefoot down the tower steps.
No one stopped her.
No one was left awake to do so.
Making her way quickly through the solar, she pushed open the massive door and slid quickly within. From a single unshuttered window along the far wall, moonlight spilled into the chamber, lighting it with a ghostly glow. Like a blade of silver, it fell across the bed, illuminating the figure entangled within its sheets much too dearly. The sight of Graeham lying there so intimately gave her pause, though she refused to allow her feet to hesitate.
Bolstering her courage, she hurried across the room, only to lose her nerve as she stared down at the bed that held the sleeping form of her betrothed.
Sweet Jesu, but he was a beautiful man.
His yellow hair was even more pale by the light of the moon, and his features flawless in slumber. Angelic, she thought, not for the first time. Even so, the very thought of crawling—willingly—into his bed was disconcerting at best. Still Dominique knew it was something she must do. She must not leave herself open again for temptation. She must do this. She
had no choice.
And she must succeed.
Drawing in a shaky breath, she carefully lifted up the coverlet and slipped beneath it beside Graeham, her heart pounding so wildly that she thought it would burst from her chest. Sweet Christ, how could he sleep with it beating so loudly? Trying to soothe herself, she lay as close to the edge of the bed as possible, taking care not to touch him—or any part of him, for that matter.
Not yet, she told herself.
In a moment, she would.
A moment passed, and then minutes went by, and with every second that elapsed, the beating of Dominique's heart became more painful to bear.
For the love of Christ, she thought hysterically, how was she going to seduce a man she could not even bear to touch?
Move closer, she willed herself. She shook her head, freezing at the slight movement she created, her breath arresting. Had she moved the bed? Had he sensed her presence?
Oh, God! What if he awoke? What would she say to him? How would she explain her bold behavior? What would he say?
Truly she was mad! And thank God, for otherwise she would never be able to carry out such an insane plan.
But she could not carry it out, she realized suddenly.
No matter that she told herself she must seduce the man lying beside her, she could not move to save her soul. The inches between them lay as wide as a chasm, and the reality of being within his bed was more distressing than ever she could have imagined.
Closing her eyes, Dominique willed her hands to move, to touch him, but they remained, to her dismay, steadfastly clamped at her breast—like a dead woman! she thought frantically.
Move! she commanded herself.
Her breathing quickened so, till she felt as though she'd raced up a thousand flights of steps—and down again! Squeezing her eyes shut, she moved her small finger, and found that the pounding of her heart increased with the puny effort.
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