Once Upon a Kiss (36 page)

“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.

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.