God's love, but it served him right to be uncomfortable, she thought with a measure of satisfaction. After all, it had been his choice to dress so oppressively. But he seemed not to notice, and that fact managed to dim her pleasure somewhat. With a touch of bitterness, she thought the accursed man made of stone for all that he seemed to feel.
The same as his heart.
Cold, hard stone.
The same as his body, she could not help but recall.
Her face heated. Still, she was piqued enough by his false concern that she arched a brow. "I didn't realize you cared overmuch for my pleasure, or lack thereof, my lord." She regretted her remark at once, fearing he might misconstrue it. Of a certain she was not referring to this morning's ordeal.
He smiled coldly. "And what makes you think I ask because I care, demoiselle?" His destrier pranced impatiently beneath him. "I merely find myself wondering if you've some reason to be anxious over this hunt... You appear so... distraught."
Dominique found herself staring at his lips, unable to keep herself from it; full lips, slightly down-turned, as though in an eternal scowl, and pale against his swarthy complexion—a complexion made all the darker by the shadow of his beard. And his black hair was as feral-looking as the man himself. And yet though too long, the shiny locks fared better than hers, for her own had long since begun to escape confinement, and now fell into her face in shameless abandon.
Like her thoughts.
If she thought her face warm before, it was warmer now. Her cheeks burned as though with fever. She averted her gaze, unable to vocalize the true source of her misery.
He was the cause of her discontent.
He was the bane of her existence.
She shook her head, her heart tripping painfully.
His tone bled with sarcasm. "Tis a guilty flush you bear."
Her gaze flew to his. "And you are an uncouth, heartless fiend—how dare you accuse me once again!"
His eyes narrowed, condemning her. "The innocent have naught to fear of mere questions," he countered.
Dominique straightened, tempted to hurl the crossbow at him. If only she could lift it. Her fingers were growing numb from gripping it so long. "I am innocent," she maintained, her tone wrathful. "God's truth, I have done naught wrong!"
"Are you, demoiselle?"
Dominique bristled, her chin lifting of its own accord. "My lord, I know not even what you accuse me of, but it seems to me that from the moment you laid eyes upon me, you were inclined to believe the worst. Tell me, what is it about me you despise so?" Even as she told herself she didn't care, Dominique held her breath, waiting for his response.
His face tightened as though she'd struck him with an unexpected physical blow. His lips thinned. "Less than I should, demoiselle—more than you know," he said hatefully.
Dominique felt the sting in her eyes. "I have done nothing to deserve this treatment from you," she persisted. Sweet Mary, but what had she gotten herself into? How could she possibly bring about the peace she craved? It wasn't going to work.
"Perhaps not yet," he relented, his face an impervious mask. "Ride faster," he apprised her, wheeling his mount about, "lest you find yourself lost. ‘Tis a vast, treacherous land," he called out as he rode off, rudely giving her his back. "We wouldn't wish to have you perish as did your messenger."
As though he cared.
Clenching her teeth, Dominique watched him canter away without giving her so much as a backward glance, a grim specter of silver, an abomination against the perfect, peaceful landscape. Yet there was a macabre beauty about him as well, with the sun glinting off his armor like diamond jewels.
She watched until he'd reached the half distance between herself and the rest of the party, all the while cursing silently at his back—words she had no right to know, though she was pleased at the moment that she did. And then stifling them, once and for all, she spurred her mount after the hunting party.
Chapter Thirteen
They'd ridden most of the afternoon, and as yet had found nothing—no sign of the attackers, nor of the rider Maude had wounded.
Blaec watched their guests' faces while they hunted. Either Beauchamp was truly innocent... or he was the most arrogant bastard he had ever encountered. More than likely it was the latter, for the Lady Dominique seemed as anxious as the buteo Nial held perched upon his arm, twitching in its anticipation of a feast on carrion... and to his way of thought, her distress gave them away.
He didn't bother to glance back at her. He knew she was there, her face pinched and white with stress. Nor had it escaped him that her brother had insisted she carry a crossbow. He wondered what they schemed. Whatever it was, he vowed they'd not succeed.
Still, the constant vigilance was beginning to wear at him.
Nor could he so easily put aside the morning's incident—guilt would be his bedfellow for many a night to come.
And to make matters worse, the buzzard's shrill, keening cries were beginning to escalate, despite that its hood was still in place. The sound, like the cries of the wounded after battle, grated upon his nerves. God's teeth, but it was no wonder only beginning falconers employed the ill-tempered beast, for neither was it a choice hunter. Oft was it lazy, opting to feast upon carrion, rather than finding itself fresh kill—precisely the reason Blaec had brought it along today.
He was counting upon it, in truth.
He smiled grimly, imagining Beauchamp's reaction when he saw the bird unveiled for the hunt. There was a certain satisfaction to be had in this subtle baiting—even if it was not quite the same pleasure as he would attain in strangling the bastard outright. Yet however much he relished the thought of harrowing Beauchamp, as of yet he'd been reluctant to unhood the bird. He'd hoped not to utilize such an obvious manner of search, for he'd hoped to discover the evidence on his own. Accidentally.
Now, however, it was past time, for he grew weary of the game... as did Graeham. His gaze was drawn once again toward his brother. He could tell by the way Graeham slouched in the saddle that he was played out... though incredibly he continued to make idle talk with William... laughing when it was appropriate... nodding when he thought it prudent.
God's truth, but his brother must have an infinite amount of patience.
Blaec, however, was lacking in that virtue, and so he tuned the conversation out, dropping back from the lead to ride beside Nial, knowing instinctively that it would take very little to provoke him in his present state.
"I believe we've wasted quite enough time," he said quietly to Nial, his tone charged with annoyance.
"My lord..."
Retrieving the protective glove from whence he'd placed it before him upon the saddle, Blaec thrust his hand within it, jerking it up the length of his forearm and twisting his fingers into place. He made certain the double leather padding was in proper position about the thumb and first two fingers, and then tugged on the reins, halting. Nial at once did the same, reining in beside him. Blaec stretched out his arm. "Hand me the bird."
Nial's mount seemed to sense the tension, for it pranced fretfully beneath him. "My lord…"
Blaec eyed the youth sharply.
"Are you certain?"
"At this hour, Nial, I cannot give a damn whether he takes insult. Hand me the bird, lad, and do not question me again."
Nial's fair face flushed with mottled color. "Aye, my lord." Swiftly, though with care, he guided his skittish mount closer, and transferred the bird of prey to Blaec's arm, making certain the leash was well secured within Blaec's hand before releasing it fully into his care. The buteo screeched restlessly, jingling its bells in a fit of agitation—a state Blaec wholly shared in at the moment.
Hearing the bird's shrill cries, William turned to peer over his shoulder, as did Graeham. Both, at once, whirled their mounts about to watch the launch, as did the few retainers they'd brought along.
"Well, well! It's about time," William called out, his spirits seeming to lift as he cantered forward, leaving Graeh
am at his back. "I thought we'd never get to the real sport," he said blithely, laughing.
Blaec gave him a cursory glance, and then simply ignored him. Nor did he bother to acknowledge the lady Dominique as she approached them at last, reining in her mount at a prudent distance... but he knew she was there. Like a blind man drawn to the heat of a fire, he sensed her brilliant sapphire gaze upon him.
If he met them... would they be full of loathing? Or would they be charged with the same confused desire he'd spied this morn? Nay, he'd not mistaken that look in her eyes... the passionate flush of her skin.
A vision of her lips, swollen and pink from the savageness of his kiss, emerged within his mind. God's blood, but he was like a drunkard seeking wine, drawn into the madness against his will. He shook it away, clenching his jaw. Saying nothing, he proceeded to remove the bird's hood—ignoring, too, the tightening of his loins, as his Judas body reacted to her mere presence. He had no right to feel this way, though God save him, he burned for her despite that it was so.
The tension mounted, if only within himself.
However, if there had been some easing of the tensions amid the hunting party itself, it vanished once the buteo was fully revealed. He heard her immediate intake of breath, and peered up to find her soft lips parted in shock.
Dominique could scarcely believe her eyes.
Until now, she'd paid the bird little mind, though she'd known it was there by its shrill cries. Yet there was no mistaking it now. It was a revolting buzzard, and her shock was palpable.
"Something wrong, Lady Dominique?"
She was dumbstruck, though she met the Dragon's gaze, more than aware that her own eyes betrayed her revulsion and startle.
"God's teeth!" William exclaimed, and his expression mirrored Dominique's feelings precisely. "What vulgarity do you plan to serve us this eve, d'Lucy?" He spurred his mount forward, invading the space between them. His mount protested, rearing slightly, and pranced away, turning as though in response to some silent warning. Restraining it, William turned to face Blaec, his face mottled with anger. "What insult is this?"
Blaec offered no explanation, though by his expression, Dominique suspected he enjoyed this immensely. His eyes gleamed and his lips curved ever so slightly. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he chanced to do so, Graeham rode forward, interceding.
"No insult intended, I assure you, Beauchamp. The peregrines are still molting, as yet. Only one is finished, though she is yet too fat to fly. The buteo was all that was available to us."
Still Dominique could not find her voice to speak. She might know little enough about hunting with crossbows, but she did know about falconry. As a child, she'd been fascinated with the mews. Graeham's explanation was likely true, for in order to molt the birds quickly, they were engorged with food to promote the growth of plumage, a process that took months in itself, and once finished, the bird was oft, indeed, too stout to fly, and in need of training besides.
It was a time-consuming task, to be sure, the keeping of birds. Nevertheless, the buteo was less than worthless in the hunt, for it did not take birds on the wing. Like the vultures, it hunted by hovering and swooping, taking small prey, such as insects and rodents, for it had not the strength or wit for bigger game—nor was it indisposed to taking carrion. The thought of either pickings set before her upon her trencher repulsed her wholly, and she shuddered at the notion.
William was clearly suspicious, and his expression revealed it, yet he said nothing more, simply watched, stone-faced, as Blaec launched the buteo. With a horrendous shriek, it cast off his glove, soaring high over the trees, its guide bells tinkling eerily on the gentle breeze.
As Dominique watched, riveted by its morbidly graceful flight, cold fingers pricked at her flesh. A sense of foreboding swept over her, intensifying as the bird began to hover above, a black silhouette against the clear blue sky... a silent harbinger of death.
Like the vulture.
Or the Black Dragon... as the tales went.
Her gaze was drawn to his silver-clad figure. His profile as he peered up at the buteo was hard, but striking—yet so was the gleaming blade of a sword, she reminded herself, and like it, he was just as treacherous. It behooved her to remember that.
It was said that he became possessed during battle, that he fought with the fury and strength of three men, that he relished the scent of blood, and woe betide to any man who came too near to his brother. In truth it was rumored that Graeham ruled more by grace of his brother's battle prowess than he did by his estimable holdings in Normandy, and that when the Dragon faced an enemy during battle, some had been known to clutch their hearts and die of fright.
Dominique had always considered it naught more than babble, but knowing what she knew of him now... she could well believe it all... which brought her to wonder once again how he'd received the scar upon his cheek. Alyss had been told that it was acquired during a bloody battle on the day that he was knighted— though any more than that was a mystery. For truth, all that was known for certain was that he'd received both his spurs and the scar that fated day.
As though he'd sensed her deliberations, he glanced her way suddenly, his lips curving softly, arrogantly, and Dominique averted her eyes, her face flaming with mortification. Sweet Mary, but why did it seem as though he knew what she was thinking, always? In his presence she felt so blessed transparent—as though there were nothing about her he could not discern, or divine.
Dominique made it a point not to look at him again and to keep her thoughts clear of him, as well.
They followed the buteo's flight about a furlong, and then it circled one last time before swooping somewhere beyond the tree line. Watching its purposeful descent, Dominique felt her stomach twist into knots. She glanced at her brother, and found him glowering as they reentered the misty woods in search of the bird and its kill. Whatever it was, Dominique vowed to have no part of it—let them all sup on field mice if they would! She would rather starve.
As the leaf-strewn path narrowed to the width of a single mount, William fell behind her so that she was directly behind Blaec. Single file they rode through the shadowy woods. In grim silence. A silence as grim as their murky surroundings.
Even as much as she despised the man before her, she dared look at nothing but his mail-clad back while they remained within the forest. Somehow, she acknowledged ruefully, his presence fortified her, for she'd heard far too many tales of woodland ambushes to feel at ease. Nor could she look into the shadows and mist without seeing all manner of intrigues. Having the notorious Dragon in their presence settled her twofold, for while he was celebrated, he was also notorious, and it seemed ridiculous to be afraid when he was a capable and feared warrior.
Anyway, how ridiculous to fear the unknown when her greatest menace rode directly before her.
It galled her that Graeham had yet to offer her a moment's interest. Forsooth, she'd ridden the majority of the morning in silence, with not even her brother to speak to, and though it had not bothered her in the least to begin with, it now grated on her nerves. It seemed to Dominique that her betrothed was bound and determined to ignore her. What then was she to be? Naught more than a bauble to show when he found the inclination? The arrogance of men! It seemed incredible that the only one person to show her any heed at all was the very man she despised—the very man who despised her, in turn.
Her emotions were in turmoil. How was she supposed to feel, to think, when one moment there seemed to be great hope for the future... and the next there seemed to be no hope at all? Nor had she been given the slightest occasion to discuss Alyss' ordeal with Graeham, despite that she'd been watchful for the opportunity to speak with him privately. Somehow she would find a way to speak to him. If not now, then later—or she would try Alyss again, for the mere thought that Alyss' abuser was free to harm another choked her with impotent fury. The more she thought about this morn's encounter, the less she could turn her attention from the odious brother, and the angri
er she got.
At him.
At herself.
What was wrong with her? Why could she not cease thinking of him?
Because she was faithless and wanton. Like her mother.
And because no man had ever kissed her before...
Dominique closed her eyes, once again blocking out the burning memory of his lips trembling upon her own.
God's truth, but why could she not fantasize about Graeham instead? Why must she crave the forbidden?
Her eyes closed tightly, and she arched her face skyward, breathless with desperation, feeling nothing but the coolness of shadow beneath the canopy of trees. Still, she burned from within, a heat that made her heart quicken and trip. Her hand fluttered to her throat as she willed away the treacherous thoughts. She had to fight the urge to make the sign of the cross. Holy Mary, mother of God, she intoned silently, pray for us sinners—
"Something ailing you, Lady Dominique?"
Dominique's eyes flew wide to find Blaec peering back at her over his shoulder. Her heart turned violently. "I..." She shook her head, flustered. "Nay," she croaked, fanning herself with a hand. "‘Tis but... I... I am hot..." Her face flushed. Anxiously she lowered her hand to the crossbow she held in her lap.
His eyes flickered with amusement. "Here in the shade of the forest?"
Her heart continued to hammer. "I-I do not like the woodlands," she countered quickly, gripping the crossbow too tightly now.
Still his gaze was unwavering. "Are you afraid, Lady Dominique?"
He taunted her now, she knew. Dominique clenched her teeth together, refusing to be baited.
His lips curved arrogantly. ‘Tell me what it is you fear?"
She could not bear it. "Certainly not you!"
His smile deepened. ‘Truly?"
"Aye."
"Ah... but you would... if you were wise, demoiselle."
Black-hearted, misbegotten swine! Cur! As much as she wished to rail at him out loud, Dominique held her tongue, gritting her teeth as she forced a smile. "Are you trying to tell me something, my lord?" she asked as sweetly as she was able.
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