Once Upon a Knight

by Crosby, Tanya Anne

  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 added 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 Thirty-Two

  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 his 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..."

  Dominique sighed deeply. "Aye," she relented, her eyes shimmering with tears all over again. "I do, Graeham... with every piece of my heart and my soul. I do."

  His eyes crinkled. ‘Then you must go to him, for he'll not come to you. 'Tis long now been Blaec's philosophy that he not pursue what he may not have. Lest a prize fall into his lap, he'll not see it."

  Dominique nodded, and Graeham stood to go.

  "He is in the hall below if you would seek him," he disclosed. "And now, alas, I am off to bed once more." He winked at her, grinning mischievously. "Lest Alyss spy me upon my feet, and decide not to tend me any longer."

  Dominique smiled. "Thank you, my lord."

  He stood looking down upon her an instant longer, and then said, "Go to my brother with my blessings, Lady Dominique." His eyes sparkled once more. "Make my domineering brother happy," he urged her, "tell him what is in your heart. He will receive it well, I assure you." And with that he turned to go, leaving Dominique to consider his words.

  But she didn't consider them long. She rose from the bed determinedly, refusing to pity herself any longer. What was done was done, and naught could reverse it. And the last thing she intended was to lose the man she loved, as well.

  Not wanting him to see her with her face stained with tears, she washed it quickly over the lavatory, and then brushed her hair loose, letting it flow over her shoulders as it would— there was little else she could do for the riotous mass. And then after finding and lighting a taper, she made her way down the stairs, halting abruptly at the foot of it.

  She found him easily enough, though he sat in the dark, for the hall was deserted else wise. The servants, having finished with their labors, had dispersed. Only one torch remained lit, braced upon the far wall; its light cast his shadow into twisted forms at his back. He sat dejectedly, his head within his hands, brooding.

  Seeing him there, she felt her heart trip. Dominique didn't want him to feel the guilt, didn't want him to hurt. She wanted to put her arms about him and hold him, soothe him.

  She wanted to run to him.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  He heard her before he saw her.

  Seeking the sound, Blaec removed his hand from his face, raking it down over his whiskered jaw, and when he spied her coming into the hall, his breath caught within his throat. Like some faerie angel she drifted toward him, her ivory gown swirling about her feet with the draft, a lighted taper in hand. She held her hand about its flame, protecting it, lest it go out, and it reflected upon her face.

  Like the night he'd made love to her by candlelight, she froze when their gazes met, looking as though she would run did he so much as open his mouth to speak. The wavering glow illumed her eyes, and caught the glints of copper in the hair that flowed over her shoulders. Like snow before the sun's heat, his heart melted within him.

  He swallowed, for it was the first time he'd set eyes upon her since their return to Drakewich. God's truth, he'd feared to look within her eyes, only to spy the hatred and revulsion there.

  He couldn't have borne it.

  Yet as she neared—though he could spy the evidence of her tears in her red-rimmed eyes, and her pink little nose—he saw none of those emotions, and his pulse began to hammer like that of an untried youth as she came to stand before the lord's table.

  "Dominique," he began, but found his tongue too thick to continue, his mouth too dry.

  They stood staring at each other an instant—though only an instant, for from somewhere above them came the most ungodly sounds. Dominique started visibly at the sounds, her face twisting in startle, and then at once she seemed to regain her composure.

  Her brows lifted, and her lips curved at the corners. "It seems as though Drakewich has been inhabited by spirits in my absence," she said saucily.

  Blaec chuckled softly, glancing toward the ceiling, his own lips curving. "'Tis Graeham..."

  "And Alyss... I know," she said, ducking her head and smiling.

  By the light of the taper, he watched as her blush spread down her creamy throat to her bosom. "I recognize the sounds," she confessed, laughing softly, her blush deepening. She met his gaze once more. "In truth... I used to believe that she and William were fighting when I was younger."

  Blaec cocked a brow. "I can see why," he said.

  "And later... well, enough to say that it always amazed me someone so timid and so quiet as Alyss could be so boisterous... er... during that time..." She nodded abashedly. "Well, you know, my lor
d..."

  He did, and he chuckled at her guarded phrasing. Yet he did not share her squeamishness. In fact, the very thought of the word aroused him. She aroused him. "It seems my brother is a noisy lover as well..." He inhaled sharply and grew sober suddenly, shaking his head and exhaling. He leaned back into his chair. "All those years... and I never knew..."

  "Knew what?"

  He shook his head, knowing Graeham would not have him share his private affairs, not even with Dominique. "‘Naught," he yielded. "Naught of consequence."

  And once again there was silence between them.

  Dominique swallowed visibly and parted her lips to speak. He waited; nothing came.

  "I..." She glanced away, and then back, staring at his shoulder, looking somewhat disconcerted. "I am sorry for your wound," she said at last, again meeting his gaze, her blue eyes sorrowful. "H-How does it fare?"

  Blaec shrugged. "'Tis naught." His voice softened at her disheartened look, reassuring her, "Truly... Alyss tended it in less than five minutes' time."

  She peered down at the candle in her hands, hiding her face from him, yet it only managed to reveal the shimmer of tears upon her lashes. His jaw clenched at seeing them. He wanted to spare her from tears the rest of her life.

  "Aye... well, I suppose I should thank you for coming for me," she said, her voice faltering slightly. ‘Though I would not have blamed you had you left me there." Her blue eyes returned to him. "I should never have gone at all."

  Blaec's heart wrenched for her.

  She deserved better. Bastard! he railed at William silently. God... he wanted to make up for everything that whoreson had done to her. "I am sorry, too," he said. "Though mostly I am sorry you were forced to witness his death," he said truthfully. "Can you forgive me, Dominique?"

  "My lord... there is nothing to forgive. I knew someone would meet death," she said. "I only prayed it would not be you."

  Relief jolted through him. Yet as much as her words eased him, they aggrieved him as well, for what must she have suffered at his hands that she could absolve him so easily of her brother's murder? "Did he harm you?"