The knot in his stomach eased with the knowledge that she'd not reached her brother—not as yet.
Though she was near enough to her destination to make him uneasy still. The last thing he wished to do was panic her just now. If she spied them and seized the opportunity to remount and to ride only a few miles south, they would be within visible distance of Amdel's tower walls, and that was the last thing he needed just now—to be spied by her brother's men—not when he was ill prepared to face them.
For an instant he sat and watched as, oblivious to their presence, she staggered into a thicket of trees ahead of them. Blaec waited only a moment longer, and then, urging his men to remain behind, he alone followed her. He dismounted, leaving his destrier outside the thicket, and then entered as stealthily as he was able.
It took him only a glance or two to locate her, for he spied the top of her head at once, barely visible above a bush where she squatted, not twenty feet from where he stood. Pissing, he thought, and singing softly besides, and his face screwed at the ill fortune of his timing.
He had to strangle the impulse to turn around and afford her the privacy she had sought, for he was unwilling to lose sight of her again. God's teeth, but he was glad he'd not brought his men, he decided, as he crouched and stole toward her.
Well, if he had hoped to catch her unawares and unprepared to flee him... there was no better moment than this.
The very last thing Dominique was in the mood for just now was singing, but she did so because it helped to dispel her melancholy. She sang a verse of a song she vaguely recalled her mother singing, and then promptly forgot the words as she was halfway through it. Trying not to think of her discomfort, or her weariness—or, for that matter, the humiliating fact that she was relieving her bladder in God's plain sight—she sighed in disgust, and tried once more:
"My husband is exceedingly jealous, arrogant, ruthless, and harsh... but he will soon be a cuckold if I can meet my sweet lover, a man of refinement and charm. You see, I do not care one bit for husbands... because they dislike anything worthwhile. I am telling you: We should scorn the boor who is full of harm!"
She nodded, quite pleased that she'd remembered this time, and continued:
"Not for all the riches of Citeaux should a lively heart and lovely lady take a husband, says Etienne de Meaux; she should take a lover instead... and I shall believe him and take a lover! Oh… I am telling you: We should scorn the boor who is—"
"Full of harm..."
Starting at the unexpected accompaniment, Dominique shrieked and bound to her feet, her face screwing in alarm as she thrust down her skirts.
Blaec cleared his throat, pursing his lips as he suppressed his laughter. Standing before him, she appeared more a waif than a lady in her threadbare blue bliaut, with her dust-smeared face—but ah, what a beautiful waif she was.
Her damp gown clung to her, revealing every delectable curve. And Christ... he remembered those curves only too well. His mouth went dry with desire. God's truth, but he was glad his men had remained behind, for if he found even a one of them staring just now, he thought he might run him through with his blade.
She was stunned speechless, he could tell, and he lifted a brow, feeling light hearted in his relief to have found her at last.
"You!" Dominique exclaimed, finding her voice at last. And then more angrily, "You!" She flew at him then, like a woman mad, pummeling his chest furiously with her clenched fists.
Laughing, though he tried to stop himself, he seized her wrists. Between his relief, and her enraged expression, he thought he would split his sides with hilarity.
"Dominique!" he bellowed. "Stop, lass."
"Never!" she swore. "I swear I will murder you here where you stand!"
"Really?" he asked her, and then burst into another peal of laughter as he attempted in vain to avoid her legs while she kicked at him. "Only, before you do… tell me," he said, when he could get a breath, "where did you learn such a bawdy song as that?"
"My mother!" she told him viciously, struggling to free herself from his ruthless grip. "You mannerless boor!"
"A boor?" he said, bursting once more into laughter. "Like the one in your song?"
"How long were you listening?" she demanded, kicking his shin.
"Ouch! Watch those legs, demoiselle. They are more dangerous a weapon than my sword."
"How long?" she demanded, her cheeks bursting with rosy color.
"God's teeth, if I'd have foreseen this, I would have worn my chausses, woman! Merely a verse or two," he relented, answering honestly, trying to preserve his legs from further damage.
She stilled at that, glaring at him, her blue eyes brilliant in her fury. "Oh! You are vile!"
He cocked a brow, grinning. ‘Truly?"
‘Truly!"
He gave her an injured glance. "You wound me, demoiselle."
"I cannot believe you would spy upon me here! How dare you!" she cried.
His lips curved. "The truth is, demoiselle, that there is not a single part of that delicious body of yours that I do not know intimately."
He could see in her eyes that his words affected her as much as the truth of them affected him. Even now he was aroused. Painfully. Despite the fact that he knew there was no possibility of being relieved this moment. Not here. Not now. Though if she kicked him once more, just a little higher this time, he would be cured for all eternity, he thought wryly.
"In fact, Dominique," he continued, his tone low and husky, "the images are burned indelibly in my mind."
Her face flushed with color—angry color, he thought, for her luminous sapphire eyes narrowed. She threw her arms out. "You've not seen this!" she said vehemently.
"What?" he asked, unable to keep himself from goading her. "What is it that I've not seen?" His grin widened, despite that he tried to arrest it.
Her blush deepened till he thought she would scream. "You know very well," she accused him, declining to enlighten him.
"Oh," he said, his grin widening. He nodded, his brows rising. "I see..." He held her wrists tighter, lest she use them to pummel him again.
He cast a meaningful glance at the ground where she'd been squatting. "You mean your pissing?"
She shrieked indignantly and struggled all the more fiercely to free herself. "Swine! Cur! Oaf! I cannot believe you would say such a thing to me!"
He clucked his tongue at her, resisting another burst of laughter. He had to fight the urge to draw her against himself and hold her, touch her, caress her, kiss her senseless. God, he wanted to. He wanted to make love to her right here and now, wanted to brand her, making her his for all eternity. He wanted to tell her there was nothing standing in their way now, for they had Graeham's blessing. He wanted to say so much. As God was his witness, he didn't know what he would do without her.
"What language," he admonished, his eyes caressing her, while his hands could not. "It seems I shall have to cure you of that, once and for all, demoiselle," he said, sobering. "After all, we cannot have the lady of Drakewich speaking such obscenities."
Her blue eyes shadowed. "We both know that I am not the lady of Drakewich—that I never will be," she returned, glaring at him. "And you are cruel to taunt me so! Release me, at last! Let me go!" She tilted her head, pleading with him.
"Never!" he swore, though he released her wrists finally. "Why did you leave, Dominique?" he demanded.
Dominique simply stared at him, the expression in her eyes seemingly as tormented as his own emotions. "You should have let me return to Amdel. 'Tis best for all."
"Christ, Dominique…" His face twisted. "Best for whom? You cannot truly expect that I should simply let you go?" he said incredulously, and meant for her to see the truth in his eyes—that he could not live without her. He wanted to speak the words, as well, but found his tongue tied. She seemed not to read him at all.
She lifted her chin. "Why?" He recognized the instant she hardened her heart against him. "Tell me, my lord... are you afraid I will t
ell my brother what you plan? That I might spoil your turn at vengeance? Is that it?"
His face hardened at her accusation, for it forced him to consider the possibility. Perhaps that was her intent today—to betray him as he had first suspected she meant to do.
"Come to think of it," he said, blinking, his jaw clenching.
"Well, you can take yourself back to Drakewich!" Dominique told him fiercely. "I'll not be returning with you, after all." She turned and stormed away, toward the palfrey she had tethered to the bushes a few feet away.
Did she truly think it would end thus?
Did she think him mad? Stupid? That he would give up so easily? He'd be damned if he'd come this far, only to have her ride away—no matter her intent.
But he didn't believe she didn't want him. No woman who made love as she did held herself dispassionate. Nor did he think she meant to betray him—though if she did, he'd be damned if he'd let her go now. "Aye?" he challenged her. "Well, we shall see about that." He moved toward her with purpose.
Dominique sensed his advance, and bolted, but she wasn't quick enough. She shrieked indignantly as he lifted her up and hoisted her over his shoulder.
"I cannot believe you would resort to this once more! You oaf! Have you no courtesy? Can you not see I wish to go home? Let me go!" she demanded furiously.
"You shall, indeed, go home, demoiselle."
She mistook him. "I wish to go home now! Not tomorrow! Do you hear me? Let me go!"
He slapped her fanny, hard, and she squealed irately. "That one's for calling me an oaf!" he told her without real meaning.
"Oh! You! Release me at once, you overbearing boor! Let me go," she entreated, squirming wildly. "Blaec!" she screamed. "As God is my witness, I shall make you regret this! Set me down!"
"I think not," he said, lugging her out of the thicket and toward his own mount.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
He came to a halt as he stepped into the bright light of the sun, and Dominique sensed the sudden tension in the muscles of his arms, and the rigidity of his back. She knew at once that something was wrong and tried to turn, to see what had caught his attention, but she could not quite twist herself about in order to see. He wasn't making it any easier on her, either, with the way he kept her restrained.
"I would suggest you do as the lady Dominique bids you," a familiar male voice apprised.
Once again, Dominique attempted to turn, and was impeded by the wrathful shake Blaec gave her. She stifled the urge to strike at him with her closed fist. God's truth, but at the moment she wanted naught more than to get her hands about his neck and strangle him. "Set—me—down!" she demanded through clenched teeth
"Do as she requests, d'Lucy."
Though reluctantly, he did so at last, setting her slowly upon her feet, and Dominique turned to discover the bearer of the voice—Rufford, her brother's captain.
And he was not alone.
Seven more of her brother's armed men surrounded them on horseback. Six surrounded Blaec's contingent of five, and one joined Rufford, standing opposite Blaec. The last man aimed a crossbow directly at Blaec's chest.
Her heart began to hammer, not in fear for herself, but in fear for Blaec, for the looks upon their faces told her all she needed to know. They would just as soon kill him, she realized and she cringed at the thought, and moved away from Blaec at once, closer to her brother's men lest he be tempted to contest them. By the look upon Blaec's face, she knew full well that he was considering it, and she wanted to make it clear what she wished.
His eyes as they met hers were icy, and it was clear he thought her gesture a betrayal. But it couldn't be helped, she told herself. She much preferred that he thought himself betrayed than to have him resist and find himself dead.
"You do not have to go," he murmured low, a muscle ticking at his jaw. "Only say the word, Dominique, and I will not let them take you."
He waited for her reply, and Dominique could scarcely speak for the emotion that caught within her throat. She shook her head, and again moved closer to her brother's men. "I... I must go," she said. "I must know the truth—I must, Blaec."
His eyes gleamed with wintry brilliance. "Ask them," he urged her, indicating her brother's men. "Ask them, Dominique, and you will know!"
"Nay!" she refused, turning and hastening toward her brother's waiting men. She lifted her skirts and ran, afraid that if she didn't go now, she would change her mind and stay, for the look upon his face rent her heart to shreds.
"Dominique!" he called after her.
Her brother's captain lifted her upon his mount, and through it all Blaec merely glared at them, unblinking, his gaze damning her as it never had before.
She couldn't allow herself the luxury of regret. She lifted her chin, though she felt more like crumpling into a miserable heap upon the ground. "I owe it to William to ask him to his face," she told him, pleading with him in her heart to understand. "Can you not see that 'tis the right thing to do?"
He said nothing, merely stared at her, his face expressionless.
"Would you not do the same?" she reasoned.
Still he said nothing, and when Rufford turned, motioning for the other seven to follow, she saw that Blaec held out his hand for his own men to remain where they sat, his face a mask of stone. Even so, she breathed a sigh of relief, even as she choked on her sorrow.
"Forgive me," she begged him, mouthing the words, for she could scarcely find her voice now to speak. And then, lest he spy the tears that followed, she turned from him, clutching Rufford as he spurred his mount away from the glade. Only when they'd started away did she recall her mare, but even then she could not speak, so choked was she. She embraced Rufford as though her life would end did she release him.
And still she could feel Blaec's eyes burning into her. She dared not turn, could not face him again. As it was, she feared she'd never forget the wounded, scornful look upon his face as he'd stood there, asking her to stay. No matter that she'd wanted to so desperately, she had to go. And knowing it was the last time she would ever see him, she could not bear to remember him that way.
Her heart twisting with grief, she sobbed against Rufford's chest, not caring that he might hear her—nor that his mail sherte cut against her cheek. The pain seemed trifling compared to that which tore through her heart.
Still, she knew... this was the right thing to do. He would have done the same for his own brother.
William was seated upon the dais when Dominique entered the hall, his chair drawn back from the lord's table, one booted foot propped negligently upon it. When he saw her, his expression lightened and he set his foot down at once, rising, looking first pleased and then suddenly discomposed by the sight of her.
Tears streaming down her cheeks, Dominique ran to embrace him, needing, in her grief, to feel her brother's comforting arms about her. She took solace in his reception, and wept, embracing him more desperately than she had Rufford.
"We found her in the glade, my lord," Rufford reported to William at once. "She was fleeing d'Lucy—the bastard! He had her heaved up over his shoulder like some worthless sack of meal."
"Have they gone?" William's tone was angry though calm. He caressed her back with a sympathetic palm.
"Aye, my lord. They took their leave, but she has wept thus since we rescued her from d'Lucy."
William stiffened. His hand stilled at her back. "You may go," he charged Rufford. And then he waited, making certain that he went. "Dominique?" he prompted after a moment's time.
Dominique peered up at him, her face stained with tears, her eyes swollen.
His own eyes were gleaming with jewel-like brilliance, taking her aback slightly with the intensity she saw there. "Did he harm you?" he asked softly, his jaw taut.
Dominique averted her eyes, unable to face him just yet with the shameful truth—that she'd fallen in love with the wrong d'Lucy. "Nay," she said brokenly, choking back her salty tears. "He did not."
His body went st
iller yet. "Why, then, do you cry?" he asked her, his voice toneless now.
Dominique shook her head, unable to speak the words, sensing his disapproval, though she could not discern over what. What had she done? She thought that perhaps he was angry because she had fled Drakewich. Yet if he only knew... if he knew how they had accused him...
She shook her head miserably, knowing it was her duty to tell him. "Oh, William," she sobbed. "They blame you for the treachery against Graeham—yet I told them it could not be. He was—"
"Graeham lives?"
Dominique shook her head. "I... I do not know," she replied honestly, swiping at her cheeks in dismay. Only now did it occur to her that she'd not even asked Blaec of his brother's well-being—in her fury, she'd not even bothered to consider it, and now the question plagued her. "I-I left as soon as I was able," she admitted, her brow furrowing, "I did not think to ask..."
And then another thought occurred to her suddenly and she swallowed convulsively. William had asked whether he lived... without surprise, and without anger that they would accuse him of such a wrong. "Blaec was not angry," she reasoned, "so I must believe Graeham lives. William," she began warily, "you are not responsible..."
She lifted her chin when he did not respond, bracing herself. ‘Tell me nay," she demanded.
His face remained an unreadable mask, expressionless, though his blue eyes continued to glitter coldly.
"William—oh, nay!" Dominique drew away from him at once, stung, horrified by the import of his silence. "Nay! Nay! Oh, God—nay! Tell me you are not!"
His face twisted suddenly, transforming before her eyes. "Why do you care?" He reached out, clasped her arm tightly and jerked her toward him, his face florid in his fury. "What is he to you, little sister—did you lift up your skirt for him? Did you?" he demanded cruelly.
Dominique wrenched herself free, and backed away in growing horror, not wanting to hear any more. She blocked her ears with her hands, shaking her head as he followed.
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