Her heart lurched as he backed her against a wall, jerking her arms away from her face and pinning them to the stone at her back. He crushed her hands ruthlessly beneath his palms.
"Did you?" he demanded. He shoved his knee, hard, between her legs. Dominique cried out in pain and in fear. "Did you let him between your legs, Dominique?"
She shook her head frantically, unable to respond.
"Answer me! Speak! God damn you, you filthy little whore!" He began to tremble fiercely as he pressed her mercilessly against the wall—as though he would shove her within its very foundation were he able.
Like a little boy, his eyes closed suddenly as though he would weep—and still he trembled—and then suddenly he cried out, and Dominique was torn between her fear of him and her desire to soothe him, for whatever else he was, he was still her brother. She gazed at him, unblinking, not understanding what was happening, though trying desperately to comprehend. He opened his eyes, and stared at her, the lack of recognition in his gaze terrifying.
"William?"
Without warning, he lowered his mouth to her lips. Dominique screamed and tried to avert her face, unable to believe this was happening to her. She spat, twisting wildly to free herself, even as he crushed his teeth against her mouth. He seized her by the hair, slamming her head into the wall, dazing her with the force of the blow.
"You filthy whore!" he accused her, covering her mouth once more.
Dominique was too dazed to fight the nauseating invasion of her mouth. He thrust his tongue within, his lips quivering as he kissed her. Dominique fought to catch her breath, to shove him away, but he was immovable.
"God damn you," he cried, his voice breaking like that of an injured child, before he ravaged her mouth once more.
Regaining her wits, Dominique found his lip between her teeth, and bit down upon it until she tasted his blood. He bellowed in pain, and jerked away, though not before leaving the imprint of his hand upon her face.
Glaring at her, he drew his fingers across his lips, finding his own blood, and then he slapped her once more. "You are just the same as your mother!" he told her viciously, as though they did not share the same blood. "A lying filthy little whore!"
He backed away, as though the sight of her disgusted him. "I could have loved you, Dominique," he told her sullenly. "I would have loved you with my body and my heart."
Dominique gazed at him with revulsion. She shook her head, swallowing, tasting the bile that rose like acid in her throat. "Wh-What are you saying, William?" She choked on a sob.
"I would have cherished you," he continued, his eyes shimmering.
She held her palm against her face, easing the sting of the blow—yet there was nothing that could ease the sting in her heart.
God... Blaec had been right. Graeham had been right. William was a fiend. How could she have been so blind? How could she not have seen the truth? He'd held her so dispassionately all these years... Sweet Christ... she had thought him oblivious to her.
She shook her head, swallowing, her eyes accusing him, glazing with new tears. Yet she made no sound, for inside she was numb.
Just then, he shouted for Rufford, startling her with the ferociousness of his bellow. Mere moments later, Rufford came loping into the hall to do his bidding.
William eyed her coldly, and said, "Take her to her chamber, Rufford, lock her within... then I want you to send a messenger to d'Lucy."
"Aye, m'lord."
‘Tell him he may come for Dominique if he dares. Though if he does... I intend to kill him with my bare hands for his treachery—you might tell him that as well. And if he does not come for her... well, then... I shall simply kill her... and I shall serve her pretty little head upon a goose platter."
Dominique thought she would faint at his declaration. "William," she croaked, disbelieving her ears. Her knees buckled beneath her.
"My lord?" Rufford said in obvious shock.
"How can you despise me so?" Dominique asked brokenly. "How can you do this? William..."
William shook his head in disavowal of her words, looking even staggered by her remark. He said, almost tenderly, "Nay, Dominique... you mistake me... I love you."
Dominique gave a hoarse cry, her hand flying to her mouth, stifling her sob, lest she burst into hysterics.
"My lord?" Rufford asked again in bewilderment.
"What the hell are you looking at?" William roared at the top of his lungs, whirling about. He started after Rufford as though he would strike him down where he stood, his hand gripping his sword. And then he stopped suddenly, his jaw working furiously, his eyes a violent, swirling blue. "Get the bloody hell out of here—both of you! Take her—and get the bloody hell out. Then go tell d'Lucy what I bade you, lest you end with your arse in the moat along with the rest of the offal."
"Aye, my lord."
William closed his eyes, and bellowed again, "Go—now!"
She gasped in horror as Rufford came toward her. Dominique could see in his eyes that he would do whatever William bade him, no matter how long he had known her, no matter that he regretted it. Her knees buckled with the knowledge, and she fainted even before he reached her.
"I lost her."
"What do you mean you lost her?" Graeham asked, sitting up within the bed, his expression bewildered. "You found her, then?"
"Aye, damn it all, I found her—and then lost her again."
Blaec came into the chamber, slamming the door behind him, spearing Alyss with a shriveling glance. Though it wasn't intended for her, he could scarcely help himself—the image of Dominique clinging to her brother's underling tormented him still. Like the picture of her standing before him, limned by the candlelight, in all her naked glory, this new image, too, now was ingrained vividly upon his mind. He shuddered with the potency of his anger, cursing roundly.
"Shall I go?" Alyss asked timidly, her face ashen as she stood to do his bidding.
"Nay," Graeham declared at once, meeting her gaze and holding it fast. "Stay," he bade her.
Blaec witnessed the exchange between them, though he refrained from remarking upon it. His mood as black as the maid's anxious eyes, he sat himself upon their father's chair, slumping down into it like a man whose spine had been broken in two—and it had been, he brooded.
It might as well have been.
She had refused him.
Though he had asked her not to go, she had done so anyway.
Part of him was stricken ill at the very notion that she was again at her brother's mercy. And though he told himself that William would not harm her, he thought the bastard's soul black enough to use even his own flesh and blood if it suited him.
Had he not heedlessly placed her in danger by abandoning her here at Drakewich? The whoreson had not even cared enough to see that his sister and Graeham were properly wed. He had left her at the mercy of Blaec's suspicions—not to mention his lust.
Nay, such a man could not love, he decided.
Another part of him... the part that she had rejected by refusing to return with him, felt well and duly betrayed. He tried to tell himself that he would have done the same... that with her innate loyalty she could have done nothing more than return to her brother. Aye, he would have done the same.But still he could not be eased.
She had refused him.
"Damn!" Without explanation, he arose from the chair, gave his brother an apologetic nod, and quit the chamber, unable to speak of his conflicting emotions even with Graeham just now... for despite that his brother had handed him everything... everything... he felt as though this day he had lost it all.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Graeham sighed, frowning at the door as it closed. "I wish there were something I could do to ease him."
"If you will pardon my candor, m'lord... it seems to me you have done so much already..."
Graeham said nothing for an instant, and then stated flatly, "You do not understand."
"Again, m'lord... if you will but forgive my boldness... I believe I unders
tand more than you think. You value your brother highly, it seems."
Graeham heaved another sigh, nodding. "I do."
"'Tis plain, m'lord. And I believe he knows. It seems to me he values you, as well. And pardon my saying so, m'lord, but lest you wish to give him your guilt, along with everything else you've bequeathed him... you must let it pass, at last... let him live as he must, and do for himself. He will discover the way. God has a way of providing."
His brows drew together. "You see all that?"
She nodded, and Graeham considered her an instant. Alyss had been at his side from the first moment he'd opened his eyes, tending to his every need. She was the first thing he had seen upon waking, and the last before closing his eyes. Truth to tell, he liked having her at his side, and thought that perhaps he wasn't in such a hurry to heal.
"You're a wise bit of baggage," he said at last.
She smiled with her eyes, and Graeham found himself once again entranced by the incredible depth of them, the way they sparkled so intelligently. "Aye, m'lord," she said soberly. "Would you have me continue now?"
"If you like." His voice sounded strange to his ears.
She smiled shyly, blushing as she approached the bed once more. "Then you must give me your back," she charged him.
Graeham did so, and she sat again upon the bed beside him. He liked the way her dainty weight shifted the mattress, filled the space beside him. "By chance, where did you learn to do such things with your hands?" he asked her casually, lifting his nostrils and breathing deeply of her presence, of the oil she had heated and placed within a basin upon the floor by the bedside.
"My mother," she told him, returning eagerly to her task. "She taught me much about pleasing a man."
He listened to the sounds of her dousing her hands with the oil; it sounded much the way sendal cloth did when rubbed together. Anticipating the first touch of her fingers upon his flesh, he lay there, still as a stone.
"Really?" he asked with a sigh of pleasure. He twisted, turning to meet her doe-like gaze. "Your mother taught you this?"
"Aye, m'lord. My mother."
"Who is your father?"
She was silent a moment. "My father was lord of Kester, vassal to William Beauchamp, and vassal, before him, to his father." Her eyes, deep, dark, and rich, were as inviting as a shadowy glade. She'd removed his bandages earlier in order to bathe him, and now she was pleasuring him in ways he'd never conceived possible... in ways he'd never allowed himself to consider.
"Your mother taught you well," he said huskily.
Alyss' soft laughter filled the chamber. With lithe, delicate fingers, she began again to massage the warmed oil into the taut muscles of his back. "Thank you, m'lord," she murmured.
‘There," she said. "Now, turn again, m'lord."
Graeham's heart staggered to a halt. "You're not through yet?" he asked, disheartened by the prospect. He turned as she bade him, and for an instant, as he lay upon the bed under her scrutiny... he felt himself stir once more and rejoiced in the sensation. It had been so long...
For an instant their gazes held, and she must have spied the disappointment in his face, for she asked, sounding as breathless as he felt, "Would you desire me to continue, m'lord?"
Graeham's voice turned husky, his breath short, his mouth too parched for words. "I would like that very much," he said. "Please..." He swallowed convulsively.
She nodded, her smile like that of a feline, and began again to stroke his chest, avoiding his injury, even as she dared to hold his gaze.
Graeham felt himself harden fully. "Should you..." He swallowed. "Should you bandage me again?" he asked, shifting upon the bed, unable to remain still with the blood simmering through him. She knew what she was doing, teasing him, and that knowledge, too, aroused him.
"Nay, m'lord," she answered huskily. "The wound is sewn and there is no infection... It needs the air now to heal." Her eyes were still upon his, and Graeham felt himself as breathless and weak as a babe under her scrutiny.
He raised himself, wanting to be nearer to her, wanting to smell her, to touch her, and then he grimaced, lying back again upon the bed, frustrated, unable to do any of those things.
"You've lost much blood," she told him, seeming to read his thoughts. "'Tis why you feel so weak," she explained. Her eyes slitted as she began again to work her lithe fingers down his chest... to his belly... and then lower...
Graeham flinched slightly, his hand going to hers, covering it with his own.
Her voice was throaty when she spoke again, and more than a little breathless, her cheeks flushed. "Shall I continue, m'lord?" she asked silkily.
For an instant Graeham could not respond, and then he nodded, his jaw clenching. He closed his eyes, feeling as though he would burst with the sensations that surged through him in that instant of surrender, filling his groin with a heat he'd not known in far too many years. His head fell back as she lowered the sheets from his naked body, revealing him fully to her eyes.
He heard her soft intake of breath and opened his eyes to spy the look of appreciation in her gaze. It filled him with exhilaration. She lifted her chin, and her features softened, and he thought her in that instant the most beautiful woman he had ever beheld in his life. She was an angel from God—his angel from God. His salvation. His own face went rigid with tension, and his jaw worked with emotion. "Alyss..." He shook his head. "You've no idea... Ah, God," he said when her fingers found him and closed about him suddenly. Feeling utterly helpless, he fell back once more upon the bed.
"Shall I continue, my lord?"
Graeham scarcely trusted himself to speak. He nodded, casting his head back against the pillows as she stroked his burning flesh. His heart hammered against his ribs. He reached out suddenly, stilling her hand, stopping her, not wanting to spill himself for the first time like the virgin he was. He wanted it to last. Aye, and he wanted to pleasure her, too.
"Did I hurt you?" she asked with concern. "M'lord?"
"Nay," he said with certainty, his voice hoarse as he met her gaze. "Not at all, Alyss. Come here," he commanded her. "Stand beside me." She did, and he reached out to take her hand, drawing her closer still. "I wish to see you," he said eagerly.
She nodded, smiling elfishly as she reached down to lift up her hem, and Graeham feared he would unman himself, after all. He could scarcely bear it. When she was naked at last before him, he drew her toward him once more, and touched her hip lightly, urging her gently to seat herself atop him.
She seemed to comprehend everything he wanted without him ever having to say a word, and he lay back in supreme pleasure as she straddled him, lifting her hips above his pelvis, where he rose to meet her. With a gasp, he guided her down over his shaft, bucking with the almost painful pleasure it brought him.
Like some pagan creature, she began to move atop him, undulating, and Graeham felt himself in Heaven at long last. He heaved a sigh, laying his head back, allowing himself for the first time in his life to savor the pleasures of the flesh without a trace of guilt.
"Alyss," he groaned. "Ah, God... sweet Alyss..." And then he could speak coherently no more, and the sounds that escaped both of their lips were like an erotic melody to his ears, drawing him to the edge, spurring him on.
Feeling a new burst of energy, he rolled atop her, urging her beneath him, refusing to lie at her mercy any longer. He wanted to love her like a man should love a woman. He wanted to pleasure her, as well.
But he was lost with the first thrust, lost in fleshly pleasure. He lay down atop her, fusing their bodies together in a slow and erotic mating ritual. Their bodies, slick with the oil that coated his flesh, twisted obliviously upon the bed, pumping slowly, and then faster, rolling, undulating, until, with a hoarse shout of triumph, Graeham fulfilled himself at last.
Be damned if he cared that he raised the rooftops; he shouted for all of creation to hear him.
With a savage outcry, Alyss joined him, holding him fast against her lush breasts, crooning
love words into his ear.
Graeham rolled again, taking her with him, mindful of his wound—though even were he to die this very night, he told himself, they would find him smiling in the morning light.
Christ, he thought deliriously... had he truly thought to commit himself to the church? Stephen, he feared, would simply have to pray after his own soul, for it seemed it was God's design that he make up for lost time.
Beginning now...
Blaec lay within his bed, one arm thrown over his face, listening to the carnal sounds that came from below, and for an instant the noises startled him. Uncovering his face, he stared into the darkness, contemplating them, for while they were seductively familiar, they were foreign to his ears. No man sleeping within his hall would make such a clamor out of respect for him and for Graeham. Those sounds could come from no other than Graeham—and God's teeth, while he'd never believed his brother completely celibate, he'd never heard such a ruckus in all his days.
Could it be? Could Graeham have remained abstinent all these years?
Nay... His brow furrowed. It was inconceivable. Nor could he fathom why he should wish to do so. While Blaec did not believe in licentiousness, neither did he believe in self-torture. Abstinence all these five and twenty years would have been more than any one man could bear. He shuddered at the notion.
Still... in all this time he recalled not once that he had witnessed his brother in the act—nor did he recall a time when Graeham had spoken of it. Yet his ears did not deceive him now. Those sounds were real, and they were Graeham's, and God's truth, he'd never heard them before now.
He was pleased for his brother—stunned, but pleased.
And God's blood, perhaps it had taken Graeham twenty-five years to lose his virginity, but he was doing it with relish and abandon. He gave a silent nod of appreciation, and then with a tortured groan, turned upon his belly, painfully aroused, and thought of Dominique.
He needed her—God, did he need her.
Chapter Thirty
Once Upon a Knight Page 74
