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 told 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 stiller 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.
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 t
hough 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 29
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 understand 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’d 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.
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