“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 30
William was inebriated.
Dominique could tell by the way he slurred his words. He spoke to her through the door as she sat atop her bed, hugging her knees to her breast, and trembling with fright. If he wished to, there would be naught she could do to prevent him from coming within her bedchamber. Nothing. No mere latch would keep him out. Aye, and he was lord here,
and her wishes, which had never accounted for much before, certainly wouldn’t be considered now.
“I am sorry, Dominique... I did not mean to hurt you,” He slammed a fist against the door, his voice sounding tortured, and she wanted to comfort him, yet all she need do to remember herself was to touch her swollen face, her split lip.
“Forgive me,” he pleaded.
Dominique dared not speak, not even to deny him. She stared out from the window of her bedchamber, feigning sleep with her silence. If he entered... and found her here within the bed...
She choked back a sob, praying he could not hear her above his own keening cries. She didn’t know any longer what he would do... perhaps had never known what he was capable of.
“Dominique,” he croaked. “I swear I did not mean to hurt you.”
Dominique shuddered, persevering with her silence. And then the door latch moved and her heart lurched painfully. Panicked by the possibility of him finding her within her bed, she stood and, moving as silently and quickly as she was able, scurried from the bed to the floor. Watching the door keenly, she crouched in the darkest corner of the chamber. There she sat, staring at the closed door, praying it would not open—praying he would go away. God help her... the recollection of his tongue within her mouth, and his beard... scratching her face, plagued her, disgusted her, shamed her.
It made her feel violated.
He had said he would kill her.
Could he possibly do such a thing?
Her own brother? How could he want her in that way?
The return of his attentions after all these years had been a blasphemous thing, after all—a thing of darkness. God have mercy upon her soul, for she despised him—her own blood—even as she pitied him.
To her relief, the door did not open. Instead, it seemed he removed his hand from the latch.
“Dominique,” he pleaded one last time, and when again she did not reply, he moved away from the door at last. She heard his footsteps as they receded from the antechamber, yet still she could not find the strength or the will to move from where she sat.
Even when the silence reached her, enveloped her like a safe cocoon, she sat arrested in the corner of the room, her face twisting with grief.
She didn’t think it possible to be more brokenhearted than she was in that moment. In the space of a day, she had lost so much... everything.
Weeping silent tears, she laid her head back upon the wall and thought of Blaec... What was he doing? Was he thinking of her?
Closing her eyes, she willed him to know what was in her heart—that she loved him, would always love him. If only she might have the opportunity to tell him so...
Would he come for her?
God give her strength to endure... she prayed fervently that he would not. She could not bear it if William harmed him for her sake.
Yet neither could she bear it if he chose not to come for her, for that would mean that she had meant nothing to him—less than nothing.
He had come after her once already...
Aye, a little voice taunted, but only because he’d thought to prevent her from warning William.
Nay, for she could not forget the way he had looked at her within the glade—betrayed.
“I love you,” she whispered, and meant it with every fiber of her being. She prayed that, somehow, God would carry her message into his heart. Aye, she loved him... more even than she did life itself. If she would die here to save him from harm, then she had lived for something, at least. “God grant me the strength,” she prayed softly, “to do what I must. Let him not come... please... please... let him not come...”
The messenger arrived before noontide the following day. Blaec received the missive with barely restrained rage, eyeing the messenger with open malice. It was all he could do not to rip the youth’s heart from his breast where he stood.
Beauchamp, wise bastard that he was, had sent a child with his threats—had the messenger been a man full-grown, Blaec wouldn’t have allowed the fool to depart Drakewich with his life. As it was, the boy spoke with trembling lips and facial ticks that trumpeted his fear.
As Blaec rose abruptly from his seat at the lord’s table upon the dais, the youth stumbled backward, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to gain distance between them. He said not a word to the boy, merely nodded at Nial, commanding him tacitly to throw the poor bastard out, and then he sought Graeham’s counsel at once, closeting himself within the lord’s chamber.
He sat restively upon the edge of his father’s chair, facing the bed, raking a tense hand across his jaw, waiting for Graeham to comment upon the news he’d only just imparted.
“It could be a ruse,” Graeham pointed out.
“I am aware of that,” Blaec said, “but I cannot bring myself to gamble with her life.”
Graeham sat up within the bed, his expression sober. “I do not trust him, Blaec, nor do I truly believe he would harm his only sister—less kill her. Only think on it, if you would...”
Blaec shook his head, unable to think at all. He clenched his jaw, for of usual, he was the judicious one here. Somehow, where Dominique was concerned, he was not capable of reason. It was why he’d sought his brother’s counsel. In his fury, he would have been halfway to Amdel by now, without the least thought for stratagem, or even the welfare of his men.
He forced himself to consider the possibility of a ruse on Beauchamp’s part but could still not bear the thought of risking Dominique. He wanted her back... under his roof... in his arms. His chest ached with the thought—with the merest prospect of her being harmed.
“If he touches so much as one...” He shook his head, unable to speak the abominable, rage consuming him.
“He merely wishes you to believe he will. Think back, Blaec... to the one meal we shared together... Do you not recall how angry he became when he thought you’d merely insulted his sister?”
Blaec closed his eyes... but saw only Dominique in his mind’s eye... the way she’d stared at him at table... studying his face... the distress registered upon her own whilst she’d scrutinized his scar. He’d been torn between wanting to conceal it from her curious eyes and wanting to assure her that it no longer pained him—at least no longer the flesh.
The heart was another matter entirely, and Dominique had somehow, against his will, come into his and filled it, until even that pain was endurable. Though he could not forget... it no longer seemed to pain him so much that he’d fought so hard to win his father’s affections... and had failed. Somehow that part of him that had searched for acceptance... searched no longer.
Yet she was gone now, and he could not bear the thought of being without her.
“You love her?”
Blaec was taken aback by the question. “Love?” He shook his head. “She’s an impudent wench.”
“I didn’t ask what you thought of her, Blaec. I asked what you felt for her.”
“I’m not certain what I feel, Graeham,” Blaec answered truthfully. “I only know that I cannot allow her to remain with Beauchamp. The very thought that she is with him now burns me alive.”
Graeham nodded. “I thought so from the first,” he said.
Once again Blaec swallowed his guilt, a knot that threatened to asphyxiate him with its magnitude. “I tried not to,” he swore.
“I know,” Graeham yielded. “I know. If ’twill ease you to know... I, in truth, never coveted her as my bride—not even from the first.”
Blaec’s brows drew together. “I did wonder—God’s teeth, but you enraged me. I was wholly prepared to honor her as your wife, Graeham, but you cast her at me again and again and again.”
Graeham sighed. “Aye, well... though I thought her lovely enough, she failed to stir me as a husband should be stirred by his wife. I was uncertain how to go about freeing myself from the noose I had placed about my throat, and you were the most obvious solution. It was evident from the first glance that you coveted her. I thought my only dilemma was in convincing Be
auchamp to agree to it... convincing you... and then once I resolved to return Drakewich to you—as I’d long ago contemplated—it was no longer a dilemma at all.”
“Aye, well...” Blaec eyed him sternly, lifting a brow. “As to that matter... I wish you would reconsider.”
Graeham shook his head. “Nay. I never wanted it.”
Blaec laughed, the sound without mirth. “Strange that both of us should value this demesne so... yet that neither of us should desire it exceptionally.”
“Not so strange,” Graeham debated. “Not when you consider the price to be paid... and at whose expense. You,” he said, “I value more dearly than I do my own life. Drakewich is yours, brother.”
Raw emotion caught within Blaec’s throat, clouding his eyes. Though he could scarcely speak, he held Graeham’s gaze. “As do I, you,” he professed, his eyes moist. “As do I, you. As for Drakewich... as long as I’ve breath, what is mine is yours,” he swore, letting his hands dangle between his legs. His head followed, dropping wearily forward.
“Beauchamp is lying,” Graeham swore. “I cannot fathom that the same man who seemed prepared to strangle you with his bare hands for your meager offense to his sister would turn about and harm her himself.”
“Aye... well... as to that... I also recall that he abandoned her here, in our custody—and all the while he planned treachery against you. He must have known, Graeham, that she would suffer were his perfidy to be discovered.”
‘True. But you forget that he never intended to be discovered. He wore the strangest helm, Blaec... one in which the nose guard covered much of the face. In truth, I would never have recognized him at all, but for the eyes.” Graeham inhaled suddenly, wincing, and clutching at his chest. “That, and his laughter,” he relented, grimacing. “The bastard is evil—and I swear I shall never heal.”
Once Upon a Kiss Page 24
