Without preamble, he replaced his helm upon his head, and then started toward them, scowling, uncaring that his anger was manifest within his eyes. “I’ll kill you, you filthy whoreson!” he exclaimed, never hesitating in his stride. He unsheathed his sword as he stalked him.
Seeing his intent, Beauchamp shoved Dominique away, into the arms of his men, and then moved to his right, away from her, backing away from Blaec, his own eyes gleeful. “It does my heart such good to see you so enraged,” he said, laughing, skipping backward as he retrieved his own sword from his scabbard.
“You bloody bastard!” Blaec exploded, and lunged at him, slicing the air between them with such force that the air sang. Yet in his blind fury, he missed.
Beauchamp laughed again, hideously. “Is she worth dying for, d’Lucy? Does my harlot sister lie so well beneath you?” He hooted hysterically.
Blaec snarled at him, once again slicing the air between them, his eyes glittering coldly, and this time he came too close for Beauchamp’s comfort. Blaec discerned the instant William’s mood changed, for he recognized the look of sudden apprehension in his eyes. With that knowledge, something inside him snapped, and he was propelled to protect that which he valued. Loved.
He loved Dominique—and he would protect her with his life!
“Tell me,” Beauchamp gibed, daring to provoke him still, “who will be left to protect her when you are gone to feed the worms?”
Blaec felt the change come over him, felt himself transform with rage. With a hellish battle cry, he positioned himself and wheeled with his sword, placing the strength of his body into his swing, crying out as he moved with blinding speed. Beauchamp was not quick enough to avoid the slice of his blade. Blaec heard the shredding of his mail, and was spurred by the metallic smell of blood.
Beauchamp cried out, falling backward with the impact, dislodging his helm in the fall. He ripped it off in order to see as Blaec charged him again. He lifted himself up, barely avoiding another swipe of Blaec’s sword. Standing again, he lifted his own sword and struck a blow.
Blaec met it with his own.
The clashing of metal rent the air.
Feinting and slicing, Blaec and William battled until both were perspiring with the exertion, and still Blaec continued, unrelenting.
Until he chanced to look up and spy the look of horror upon Dominique’s face... It took him aback enough that he evaded the next strike much too slowly, taking a slice upon the shoulder. He felt the warmth of his own blood run down his arm. The smell of it, coupled with the image of Dominique’s anguished expression, caused him to reel. With the next strike, he fell backward, staving off William’s blows with a strength and fervor that came from desperation. His helm went flying, leaving him, like his opponent, without protection against a blow to the head.
But he had no intention of dying—or placing his head within reach of William’s sword, for that matter.
If Dominique was repulsed of him for this, then so be it, but he could not allow her to remain within her brother’s vile hands. If it meant she would despise him for all eternity, it couldn’t be helped, he told himself. He intended to kill the bastard, once and for all—for Beauchamp’s perfidy against Graeham and his father, as well as his offenses against Dominique.
With a ruthless war cry, he struck out, knocking William off balance with the impact, and then thrust his sword above his head, and rolled, surging to his feet with ease, despite the weight of his mail and his wounds. Nor could he feel the blood dripping down his arm any longer.
With renewed determination, he went after William, slicing and hacking at the air between them. Once again, he spun, crying out, and this time he caught William’s sword, cleaving it in two with the force of his blow. The tip of his own sword went flying at the impact.
Startled murmurs filled the air about them.
With both of their swords destroyed, and William empty-handed, Blaec cast aside his own broken blade and went after him bare-fisted. Bellowing in outrage, he dove at him, driving him backward with the impact onto the bare ground. With a snarl, Blaec locked his hands about Beauchamp’s neck and began to squeeze.
Together they rolled upon the ground, each struggling to dominate the other. First Blaec gained the advantage, then William, yet Blaec’s hold upon William’s neck was so fierce that even when he prevailed on top, straddling Blaec, he could not retain the advantage. He tried to reach for his sword, but the effort lost him his balance.
Once again, Blaec rolled, jerking Beauchamp along with him, and then straddled him. His eyes burning with anger, he clutched Beauchamp’s neck tighter, pressing his thumb into the soft spot of his throat, feeling the life pulse beat against his flesh.
God help him, it would be so easy to crush it.
So easy.
William coughed, spewing, urgently seeking air, and in that instant of hesitation Blaec came aware of Dominique’s shrieks behind him. Yet he continued to squeeze until William’s eyes bulged and his face turned scarlet, and then blue.
And still her screams pierced his ears, driving him to distraction.
“Stop!” she was crying out. “Please—please stop!” she wailed at his back.
He tried but could not, so fierce was the hold his battle fury held upon his body and his mind. William reached up, groping, and in his desperation ripped the ventail from Blaec’s face.
And still her screams and shrieks split the air.
With a savage cry, he released Beauchamp’s throat, unable to finish the bastard off with Dominique witnessing it and screaming so hysterically.
Damn, but he could not do it!
Cursing in disgust of himself, he seized hold of Beauchamp’s head instead, slamming it repeatedly, fiercely, against the hard-packed ground until William’s eyes rolled backward into his head and then closed, and then Blaec surged to his feet, cursing, panting.
He spun to face Dominique, his expression murderous, and found her brother’s men restraining her as she struggled to free herself.
He spied her battered face again, and rage, black and potent, filled his veins. ‘Take your filthy hands off her!” he commanded them, and like a man possessed, he charged after them, vengeance burning in his eyes.
The two who held her released her at once, their expressions alarmed as they retreated.
Once again Dominique began to shriek, but he couldn’t stop himself; he kept going. He lifted up his sword from the ground as he passed it, fully intending to slice the heart out of each and every man who had dared to touch her. Like a madwoman, she shook her head frantically, screaming and waving her arms, and he paused, staggered by her reaction to him. It seemed for an instant that she was screaming in fear of him, and he shook his head, unable to bear it.
Didn’t she understand that he did it for her?
“Nay!” she shrieked, her face bloodless. “Nay! William! Nay!” she screamed, and waved her arms, racing toward him, and in that instant, Blaec understood.
He spun to face William Beauchamp.
William had revived, his face swelling already, and stood a staggered instant before coming at him, his half sword upraised, cursing.
Blaec wasted not a breath in his decision. Clenching his jaw, he raised his own destroyed sword and charged at William, driving his jagged blade with a single thrust through William’s chest. He heard the splintering of ribs, and still he was not appeased. With another savage cry, he drove William’s body backward, skewering it through and pinning him, with the might of his drive, into the very ground.
For an instant he watched with morbid fascination as William’s blood seeped into the unfertile ground, poisoning it again.
“Like father like son,” he spat, hissing the charge. “Only this time I will see you die!” he swore. “Before my eyes I will watch you breathe your last, Beauchamp!” With that, he drove once more, putting the weight of his body into the final thrust, pinioning William’s massive frame inescapably to the ground.
“By the by,” he add
ed with great satisfaction, “I lied.” He wanted Beauchamp to hear the truth before he died, wanted him to writhe in hell, knowing he had succeeded at nothing. “Graeham lives,” he said with relish, and then he smiled fiercely.
William’s eyes burned with a hatred that matched his own, though only for a moment, and then with a gurgling sound, his head fell backward to stare sightless at the heavens above. In that instant, Blaec felt only a grim satisfaction, for all that mattered was that the bastard was dead at long last.
In his savage state of mind, it took him another befuddled instant to recognize that Dominique’s screams had ended at long last. He spun to face her and found her within Nial’s arms. Nial embraced her, facing him, staring in silence, his own face expressionless, as were those of the men surrounding him—his own and Beauchamp’s alike.
As he stood there, realizing the full impact of his actions—that she had witnessed the murder of her own brother, by his own hands—his face drained of blood.
Why was it the unloved fought so hard to gain what could not be held? The old question came back to haunt him.
As yet he had no answer. He only knew that it had not mattered what his father had done to him; he had sought Gilbert’s love to the bitter end, and then, upon his death, he had grieved—as hard as any other.
And with that bit of knowledge, another question burned: Could Dominique forgive him?
Chapter 32
Dominique couldn’t recall when she’d wept so much or so hard.
Though she told herself it was the only way this could have ended, and that her brother had long ago chosen his course, still she grieved for him.
And the guilt—it tore at her like daggers.
When William’s men had started after them, she’d known they would interfere, and so she’d fought them wildly, screaming and shouting to make Blaec aware of them. But alerting Blaec to her brother’s fatal advance was another thing entirely. It seemed the ultimate betrayal.
Yet had she to do it over again... she would again. As difficult as it was to see her brother die so violently before her eyes, it would have been thrice as bad to see Blaec succumb to her brother’s treasonous sword. God’s truth, but she could never have borne it.
They had returned to Drakewich straightaway, arriving in the dead hours of the night, and Dominique had ensconced herself at once within Blaec’s chamber. She’d slept for most of the morning and then the afternoon, wearied by her emotions and simple exhaustion. And then she eschewed the midday meal, for she had no appetite—every time she thought of yesterday’s bloody battle, she felt only like flying to the garderobe.
She kept hoping Blaec would come to her, for she had not the energy to seek him out. God’s truth, but all she wished just now was for him to hold her... but he did not come. When a soft knock came upon the door shortly after the end of the evening meal, she glanced up in anticipation, bidding the visitor to enter, hoping to see Blaec’s face.
She was startled to find Graeham there instead. He came in, gazing at her with no small measure of concern, and it warmed her heart to have him look at her so.
“I’ve no wish to disturb you,” he said.
“Nay,” she cried, swiping the tears from her face at once. “Please come in!”
He did, closing the door behind him, and Dominique noted the way that he held his chest as he walked, the grimace upon his face as he came to the foot of her bed. Guilt plagued her once more, for though she’d not wounded him herself, her brother certainly had. She didn’t know how he could bear to look at her.
“May I?” he asked, waving a hand at the bed as he sat upon it.
In this way both of these brothers were alike—both would do as they pleased, only Graeham, at least, seemed inclined to ask his leave afterward. Dominique choked on a weary giggle over the observation.
“Forgive me, my lord,” she said, sitting to face him, “but it seems to me you already have.”
Graeham chuckled. “My brother is right... You are an impudent wench.”
Dominique’s brows drew together dejectedly. Her lashes lowered. “He said that, did he?”
“Among other things,” Graeham relented, his eyes glimmering. He sighed, she thought, at her reaction. “I came, Lady Dominique, to speak my piece, and so I shall and then leave you at last.”
Dominique braced herself, knowing he had every right to scorn her for all that her family had done to his. Alyss had revealed to her everything, had cried with her, held her and caressed her face, telling her the fault was not her own... but Dominique knew otherwise. “What is it you came to say to me?”
“Two things... among them a simple little tale,” he said cryptically.
Dominique met his gaze guardedly. “First, I wish to ask your pardon for the way in which I treated you when first you came to Drakewich…”
She could scarcely hide her shock. She inhaled sharply, her face twisting, and shook her head adamantly. “Oh, nay, my lord—nay! ’Tis I who must beg your forgiveness! I never meant to...”
She averted her eyes suddenly, and again shook her head, unable to speak the words. “I never meant to betray you with Blaec,” she finished lamely.
“God’s truth... it was not your failing. That...” He shook his head, as though considering how best to proceed. “You see... that is precisely what I wished to tell you. Dominique... you must trust me when I say that nothing transpired beneath this roof that I was not wholly aware of.”
Dominique frowned, not understanding.
“Truly,” he assured her, “everything passed as I intended it should. In truth, ’tis to you and to Blaec that I must offer my apologies—and this I do wholeheartedly—yet there was no other way to accomplish what I felt must be done.” It was his turn to appear discomposed. He averted his gaze momentarily. “The bloody truth is that given the same circumstances, I would do it all again. Yet—” his gaze met and locked with hers “—it would all be for naught if you do not love him...”
Dominique felt her tears begin anew. She opened her mouth to speak, but he held up a hand, bidding her not to do so as yet.
“Before you answer that... allow me to tell you the second thing I came to say.”
Tears welling in her eyes, Dominique nodded, feeling the emotion rise like a lump in her throat. Did he not know? Could he not see in her eyes what she felt for his brother? She was lost without him.
He smiled wanly. “Once on a time,” he began, the glimmer in his eyes dimming, “there was a man and a woman who fell deeply in love... but the woman was betrothed to another and they could not love each other openly. And then the woman’s betrothed was killed at war, and the woman was free to love where she would... and she and her love were free to wed at last. This they did, and it was not long before the woman found herself with child...” His voice trailed, and then he continued. “Twin sons, they were. One fair as his father and his mother... the other one dark...” He swallowed visibly. “Dark as the woman’s dead betrothed.”
Dominique blinked back tears. “Blaec?” she asked hoarsely, beginning to comprehend the tale.
Graeham nodded, and Dominique could tell that the telling of this particular tale pained him considerably. “At any rate... the boys’ sire at once began to count the days since their espousals, and found them too few in number. He found, too, that the dates coincided with the final time the wife had last seen the dead betrothed, and though he loved her... he could not keep himself from wondering. Even as she denied it vehemently, it plagued him. But the one son, he could not deny, for he was too much like himself. The other...” His jaw tightened. “The other he shunned.”
For an instant there was only silence between them, for Dominique knew not what to say. “Did he never accept Blaec?”
“Do you know the scar Blaec bears upon his cheek?” he asked her by way of response.
Dominique nodded.
“’Twas done by my father,” Graeham revealed. “Blaec wanted so desperately that our father should be proud of him upon hi
s knighting, and when my father stepped in to administer the colee, Blaec’s eyes did shine.”
He breathed in deeply, closing his eyes with the memory, and when he reopened them, they were shimmering with tears. “If my own heart was fraught with joy and pride that my father would at last accept him, Blaec’s was near to bursting. My brother knelt there, his shoulders straight, his head lifted proudly, waiting patiently, unable to conceal the pleasure in his eyes as my father removed his sword from his scabbard.”
Graeham’s jaw worked with emotion as he relived the moment. “And then my father reared his arm back, and he smote him with the hilt of it—with all the strength of his body. God’s truth...” His voice broke. “I thought he shattered every bone in Blaec’s face.
“Blaec fell backward from the blow, and then recovered himself, jolted. Yet he did nothing but kneel again before our father, still reeling from the buffet. God... he knelt there, blood flowing from his wound, and his eyes shadowing with pain even as I watched, but he took that blow like a man.”
Tears streamed down Dominique’s face. She could not speak, imagining him so spiritually, broken. “He lied to me about the scar,” she said choking on the words. “He lied when I asked...” Her heart broke for the little boy he’d been—she wanted to reach back in time and hold him, tell him that she loved him.
Graeham nodded. “It surprises me not, for he would never speak of it after.” He smiled sadly. “Until you came, my brother’s emotions were scant. He showed them not at all—neither anger nor joy. Yet since you arrived here at Drakewich, I have seen them both aplenty... beginning from the moment you rode into the bailey. You should have seen his face... Aye, he loves you, Dominique,” he told her. “Now I ask you again... do you love him?”
She laughed nervously, shrugging. “He’s such a domineering brute.”
Graeham chuckled at her response. “Funny you say so, but I did not ask you what you thought of him,” he debated, “I asked what you felt...”
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