Once Upon a Kiss (13 page)

He was no more immune to her than she was to him.

Bewildered, she touched her fingers to her lips.
Already they had begun to swell and were tender to the touch.

When he was fully dressed, he turned to address
her once more, his eyes glittering dangerously. “One more thing, demoiselle...
If you ever wear that gown again, I swear to you that I shall rend it strip by
strip from your body— regardless of where we are. Regardless that you are
my brother’s bride. Understood?”

Still dazed by what had transpired between them,
Dominique said, her voice trembling, “Why? Why does my gown offend you so? Why
should you care what I wear?”

“Because it was stolen from me!”

He turned to go, and she found she could move
again at last “You lie!” she accused him. “’Twas a gift from my brother!”
Quaking, her limbs feeling as though they had less substance than water, she
started to rise from the bed, only to find herself arrested when he turned to
face her yet again. For an instant he merely glared at her, and then he turned
and stalked toward her.

“I
never
lie, demoiselle, and I never threaten
without intention!”

Dominique didn’t wait to discover his intent this
moment. She turned and fled, scrambling over the bed, but he was much too
quick. She gave a hapless shriek as he caught her about the waist and suddenly
lifted her up, into his arms.

“Release me at once, you! You! Ayeeahh—” Her
protest ended abruptly as she was dumped unceremoniously into the bath. Water
cascaded up each side of her, enveloping her, sucking her down into the depths
of the tub, soaking her thoroughly. She glared up at him wrathfully. “Beast!
How dare you!”

His mouth curved with the first traces of genuine
humor she’d ever glimpsed upon his lips. Nevertheless, Dominique was far from
amused. She wanted to curse him to damnation, if only she could, for he’d all
but ruined her gown—the beautiful cloth her brother had brought back for
her from London, the only gift he’d ever given her. She felt like raking the
demon’s eyes out as he hovered above her so smugly.

“A small guarantee,” he said glibly, his ensuing
smile deepening the scar high upon his cheek and revealing the single dimple
upon the other. They did share the distinguishing trait, she thought
irrationally.

Without further ado, or explanation, he turned and
left her, chuckling richly at her expense.

“Blackguard!” she shouted, even as she slipped
farther into the tub with the effort. Reaching beneath her, she jerked the
odious lump of soap out from under her, glaring at it wrathfully, and then she
hurled it at the door as it closed, taking great satisfaction in imagining the
Dragon’s head as her target instead.

Clenching
his fists at the sight of his brother sparring with Nial, his cocky young squire,
Blaec made his way toward the scrimmaging pair, barely cognizant of the crowd
of onlookers who parted before his wrathful glare. His emotions were at war,
for while he was pleased to see Graeham training rather than on his knees at
chapel, he also had the overwhelming desire to strike a fist to his brother’s
face.
Her
doing, for not since their nose-wiping days had he experienced such a senseless
urge.

Nial
was the first to spy him. The youth’s smile vanished and he lowered his
sword—a testament to the fierceness of Blaec’s expression, for the lad of
usual, with his indomitable spirit, was intimidated by little. Proof was in the
way he’d bantered so carelessly with his lord only seconds before. Not so now.
He looked much as though he would soil his braies.

Graeham,
spying Nial’s unsettled countenance, turned to face Blaec, but unlike the
youth’s, his expression twisted with unconcealed amusement. “Ye God!” he
exclaimed, chuckling as he took in Blaec’s dripping wet head and tunic. “What
in creation happened to you?”

With
some effort, Blaec unclenched the fist at his side. “Why is it you think
something has happened?” he asked with deceptive calm.

“Oh...
well...” Graeham shrugged, and seemed to be battling the urge to laugh.

Blaec
wasn’t in the mood. He cursed silently.

“Perhaps
’tis because you appear as though you’ve been chewed and spat out,” Graeham
offered, and let loose a hearty chuckle.

Renewed
fury surged through Blaec. “I was restless,” he said tersely. Only the muscle
ticking at his jaw betrayed him as he eyed the sword his brother held. “In
fact, I came down to spar with you.” He cocked a brow in challenge, a
self-mocking smile curving his lips as he disclosed, “You might say I couldn’t
resist.” And he wondered wryly if Graeham understood the double entendre.

For an
instant Graeham’s expression was bewildered. “Aye, well... that explains it,”
he announced with considerable humor. “You were so eager to join us that you
did not even take the time to dry yourself?”

Nial
barked with laughter, a startled sound that quickly dwindled to a nervous groan
when Blaec spared him a glance. Not trusting himself to speak, he smiled grimly
at the youth and raked his fingers through dripping locks, lifting them up and
out of his face. He turned to Graeham. “Seems so,” he yielded.

A grin
spread across Graeham’s features. He turned to Nial. “Well, then, lad, stand
aside! Time to watch and learn,” he declared with a chuckle. And in a whispered
aside, he added, “He wants to whip my arse, I think.”

Quiet male
laughter echoed about them. Nial nodded quickly, immediately doing as he was
bid, his expression clearly disbelieving that anyone should jest over such a
likely prospect—brothers or nay. But Graeham’s eyes twinkled as he turned
again to face Blaec, undaunted. And then suddenly his expression was sober. He
tipped his head, the faintest glimmer still evident in his deep brown eyes.
“First,” he said, “you should understand that no harm was done...”

For the
first time in their lives, silence was a barrier between them.

“You
are my brother.”

Blaec
stood unmoving, fully conscious of the fact that there were too many witnesses
present for him to betray the truth. Guilt plagued him.
Harm was done.
It was an assertion only
the two could comprehend. An acquittal. Yet it served only to infuriate Blaec
all the more.
Harm
was done.
He swallowed, the knot in his throat bobbing as he faced his
brother... his friend. God save him, he’d sampled betrayal, and the taste of it
was bitter, indeed. Though Graeham didn’t realize, he had every right to cleave
him in two. And if he didn’t wish to try, then Blaec damned well did.

“I
understand perfectly,” Blaec said, forcing a lighthearted smile. “You’re much
too fainthearted to lift that weapon against me. “

Graeham
chuckled, and shook his head. “Lacking, perhaps... but fainthearted, never.” He
lifted his sword as evidence. “You might regret this,” he added.

“Really?”

“Really.
I’ve been practicing, you see.” He laughed when Blaec still made no move to
unsheathe his sword. “I see the very notion has you quaking in your boots.”

Blaec
chuckled despite himself. “Give it your best,” he charged him, and with
misleading calm, unsheathed his own sword, wielding it.

To any
man’s eyes, this would be a simple contest of skills, naught more, one of many
between them, but Blaec felt an underlying violence at the notion that his
brother had purposely thrust him so near the edge.
And guilt.
He could never discount the
guilt. Preparing himself, he shook his head, sending spatters of his bathwater
flying into Graeham’s face.

“God’s
teeth, Blaec, but dry yourself next time!” Graeham swiped at his cheek.

Blaec’s
expression turned sober. “Graeham,” he said, “what if I were to tell you it was
otherwise? What if I said harm was done?”

Testing
its weight, Graeham swung his sword, and then shrugged. “I suppose, then, I
would inquire as to whether you enjoyed it.” He chuckled at Blaec’s answering
expression, changing the subject. “Fainthearted, am I?” He laughed richly.
“What, then, do you think of this?” Grinning, he struck the first deft blow.

With
practiced ease, Blaec deflected it, returning a ruthless one of his own. God’s
truth, but Graeham’s lightheartedness evaded him. The last thing he needed was
Graeham’s unwavering trust, or his sanction—and his fury, while tempered,
was far from dissolved. More swiftly than he could have anticipated, Graeham
shunted it, his expression turning serious with the force of the impact.

As
though he’d read Blaec’s thoughts, Graeham said between breaths, “I trust you,
Blaec.”

Blaec
cracked another grim smile. Pride and pleasure bled into his anger at seeing
his brother’s rarely exhibited mastery. It doused his fury
momentarily    until he recalled the feel of his brother’s bride
beneath him, and guilt and rage filled him anew. With a savage outcry, he
whirled, striking another blow, less controlled this time, though still with
confidence that Graeham could manage it. He smiled when Graeham parried so
deftly. “You
have
been practicing, I see.”

“I’m
pleased you noticed,” Graeham said, his smile engaging.

“How
could I not when you made it a point to say so?”

“God’s
bones,” Graeham lamented. “And I thought
’
twas
my skill that alerted you to the fact.”

Blaec
laughed, low. “Pity you thought so,” he returned, unable to resist the sportive
quip. Too many years of raillery lay between them.

Once
again metal screeched as blades clashed, tangled, sparked. They struck and
parried, the contest continuing until both were winded. Blaec, emotionally
torn, lacked his typical finesse. He knew too well that to allow one’s emotions
to rule obscured one’s judgment and could prove a lethal mistake were one’s
opponent not one’s brother. Still, he could scarcely help himself when the feel
of her lips crushed beneath his own still taunted him, made a mockery even now
of his self-control. By God, he had none!

Not
now.

Not
then.

And God
damn him to hell for it!

Again
he struck, wildly this time, blinded by self-contempt. Another. And another.

Graeham
parried each, and with a hoarse cry, spun and caught Blaec’s blade, striking
hard, and knocking the sword from Blaec’s grasp more easily than he should have
been able to. It flew, striking the ground with a thud, its silver blade
reflecting the sun with painful brilliance.

Stunned
murmurs filled the air.

For an
instant their gazes linked, held, and then Blaec turned away, uncertain as to
why he had released the hilt so easily. Perhaps he’d hoped Graeham would finish
him once and for all. And perhaps he’d known his emotions were getting out of
hand.

“I
trust you,” Graeham reiterated, heaving in a weary breath and tossing their
father’s sword down between them.

Blaec
stared at it, his fingers going unconsciously to his cheek as he doubled over. Bracing
his hands upon his thighs, he gulped in air, muttering a curse as he swiped the
sweat from his face with his sleeve, averting his face. He was fully aware that
everyone stared. He was mad. There could be no other explanation for this. He
was tired, aye, but so was Graeham. Damn the both of them. The night had been
too long... and he was still too angry with Beauchamp’s treachery.

Not to mention
his own.

Christ...
if he could but prove Beauchamp’s guilt...

“Lauds!”
came an unwelcome cheer. “Lauds to the both of you!”

Blaec
had no need to turn to know to whom the voice belonged. The hairs upon the back
of his nape prickled and stood on end.

William
chortled at his back. “Especially to you, Graeham.” He laughed outright.

Graeham
straightened.

So,
too, did Blaec, meeting Graeham’s gaze briefly, acknowledging the cautioning
glance his brother flashed him, before turning to face the man he was beginning
to loathe more, even, than he did himself at the moment.

What he
didn’t expect was to find her in accompaniment, and he started, tensing visibly
at the sight of her.

Her
hair was damp still, but plaited now to keep the locks from her face. Coiled
about her head, it appeared darker, though the drier strands stood out like
rich copper veins. A few escaped confinement and fell in damp ringlets about
her face. Her cheeks were rosy, and growing more so by the instant—a
testament to her guilt, he thought.
Of his own.
Their gazes met, and hers darted
quickly away.