Once Upon a Kiss (38 page)

Within the hour, Blaec rode out from Drakewich
with a contingent of nine—Nial at his flank, bearing his banner high
against the noonday sun, its golden threads glittering fiercely.

Yet no fiercer than Blaec’s mood.

Though the distance from Drakewich was a mere
three and a half hour’s journey, it seemed to continue without end. His thoughts
driving him like demon hounds, he pushed his men harder, faster, without mercy.

There would be no mercy for Dominique if he did
not arrive in time.

He tried not to think about her—reflected
instead on the ways he would torture Beauchamp. Never had he taken so much
pleasure in the prospect of one man’s death, but he fully intended to make
Beauchamp pay for all his treachery.

Before the sun set this day, he swore, one of them
would writhe in the flames of hell.

“Lady Dominique... please... unlatch the door...”

Hearing Rufford’s voice instead of William’s,
Dominique went to the door, speaking through the crack. “Why?” she asked
warily. “What is it you wish of me, Rufford?”

She’d locked herself within last eve, and had
sworn to die of hunger rather than come out and face her brother again. And at
the moment, she felt as though it were a possibility, for her belly had been
grumbling for the last hour. Still, she refused.

“Lady Dominique...” He sounded as dispirited as
Dominique felt, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t care. If he would serve her
brother in his heinous dictums, she cared not a whit what punishment would come
to him.

“I’ll not open the door,” she said with certainty.
“If you would come within... ’twill be by force, for I’ll not go willingly.”

“But you cannot stay in there forever, m’lady...
You must needs eat sometime.”

Dominique snorted. “Why?” she asked with no small
amount of hysteria. “He plans to kill me anyway, Rufford. What does it matter
whether I eat, or nay?”

Silence met her proclamation. And then, “I do not
believe he would truly do so, m’lady... He is but angry, I think.”

Once again Dominique snorted. “Aye? Well, I didst
not believe him capable of what he has done to me, and yet he has. How can you
know what William intends? Nay—I’ll not come out. I would as lief—”

There was a sudden commotion on the other side of
the door, and Dominique backed away from it, fully expecting to see it fly from
its frame. When it did not, she returned to it, placing her ear to it.
“Rufford?” she called out.

She could hear him speaking in low, frantic tones
behind it—to whom, she could not tell, but he did not respond at once...
and then he did. ‘‘M’lady,” he said firmly now, rapping sharply upon the door.
“I must insist you unlock the door. My lord William... he would have you
brought to the castle walls.”

“Why?” she demanded to know.

“Blaec d’Lucy...”

Dominique’s heart tumbled violently at hearing his
name. God—Blaec. He was here. Her hands trembling, she unlatched the door
at once.

“Not good enough, Beauchamp!” Blaec called upward.
His
destrier
pranced restlessly beneath him, snorting impatiently. He’d ridden in mere
moments before, and had summoned William at once, issuing him a challenge he
knew the bastard could not refuse. He waited now, negotiating the terms, whilst
they brought Dominique before him. “I want her here below!” he exacted,
pointing to the ground before him. “I want her here where I might see for
myself that she is unharmed—not there upon your God-accursed walls,
Beauchamp!”

A weighty silence drifted down from the walls.

“Come now, Beauchamp,” Blaec taunted, removing his
helm to peer up at William’s silhouette standing arms akimbo upon the parapet
above. Arrogant bastard! “You cannot be afraid to face me?” he mocked him. “Or
can it be that the mighty Beauchamp has only the heart for deceit?”

“Afraid of you?” William snorted. “Hardly, d’Lucy!
I merely wonder why I should give you any advantage at all. Look around you. I
can do what I wish with a single command from my lips, lest you forget.”

“Aye, but then you must take Drakewich by force. A
formidable task at best,” he reminded him. “Murdering me outright will not get
you within those gates, and ’twill gain you Stephen’s wrath, besides.”

“Stephen is a milksop!” William shouted down to
him, laughing uproariously at the prospect of earning the king’s ire.

Blaec could not argue when he thought much the
same of their vacillating king. Though he was no coward, by far, neither was
Stephen a daunting force, and justice was never imminent. It was said openly,
in truth, that Christ and his saints slept whilst Stephen sat England’s throne.
“Nevertheless,” he persisted, “accept my challenge and you gain yourself
witnesses. What have you to lose? Unless you are afraid of me, Beauchamp?”

“Afraid of you?”

“Bring her down,” Blaec insisted, “or I ride away
now and you will lose your chance at earning Drakewich.”

Again silence.

“Think on it, William... If you best me in
hand-to-hand combat, I will commit myself into your hands—myself in
exchange for Dominique’s freedom. ’Tis a small price to pay.”

Blaec could tell by his stance that he was
wavering. “And you say Graeham is dead?” William relented at last.

This time it was Blaec’s turn for silence, though
he did not hesitate long. One lie, for the good of all.

“Aye,” Blaec answered tersely, “my brother is
dead,” he lied. If it would damn his soul to hell for eternity, then so be it.
If William thought Blaec the last obstacle between himself and Drakewich, then
it would serve him all the better. He doubted William would come down else
wise, for he had nothing to gain, save to kill him—and that, he could do
easily enough from where he stood. As he’d pointed out, he need only give the signal
for his men to rain their arrows down upon him.

Nay, this way, if Beauchamp thought Graeham dead,
and he believed himself, in his vainglory, able to defeat Blaec, then he would
have the added incentive of securing witnesses to their bargain in order to
carry his case before Stephen. Though it would do little more than facilitate
his taking of Drakewich, it would save him much grief in the end—or so he
would think.

Only Blaec didn’t intend to lose.

If there would be trickery here this day, then it would
be his own, and he felt no dishonor in using it, for he’d never claimed to be
the saintly one; that was Graeham’s role. He only knew how to survive.

“Come down, Beauchamp... and should you succeed in
killing me, as well,” he challenged, “then Drakewich will be yours at long
last. Isn’t that what you wish?”

“It is my right to hold it,” William called down
to him, his tone bitter. “My right! Do you hear me? ’Twas stolen from my
father!”

Blaec’s jaw clenched. “Aye,” he shouted back. “I
hear you, Beauchamp! Come down now,” he challenged once more. “Come down, or
you shall be evidenced as the coward you—”

The words died on his tongue as the figure of a
woman appeared above upon the parapet, her hair a burning mass of ringlets,
glinting red against the waning sun. She was dragged before William, only to be
jerked about to face Blaec below.

Dominique.

Blaec flinched in the saddle, for his gut wrenched
at the sight of her. He could not see her face from whence he sat, but he saw
her shoulders were drawn back proudly, and he wanted to do nothing more in that
instant than wrap his fingers about Beauchamp’s neck and squeeze until he
breathed his last.

His own sister.

The very thought sickened him.

“You wished proof,” William called down to him.
“Well, here she is, d’Lucy... Feast your eyes upon her now, because today you
die—as does she, for her faithlessness, when I am through with you.”

Fury surged through him. “Nay!” he bellowed. “I
want her here before me,” he shouted, beginning to lose his patience. His knees
clasped his mount with such ferocity that it protested, rearing, and nearly
unseated him. “God damn you!” he said. “Bring her down, Beauchamp! Do it now!
Or the deal is done,” he swore.

William laughed from his perch above them. “Very
well,” he relented at last, seemingly pleased with Blaec’s reaction to his
words. “I think it would suit me well enough to have her see you die up close.”
With that, he shoved her before him, urging her to walk the parapet. Blaec
could see that she resisted, stumbling, but William lifted her up and propelled
her swiftly along before him. They disappeared from view as they started below.

Blaec waited for what seemed an eternity as the
gates were unlocked, adrenaline surging through his veins. And then, at last,
they flew wide, and he caught his breath at the sight of her.
Beauchamp—the coward—appeared with half his garrison at his back,
but he saw none of them, only her.

His eyes drank in the sight of her. Like some
dirty waif, she wore the same blue bliaut he’d last seen her in, though it was
wrinkled now and unkempt. Her hair was wild, her ringlets uncombed. And her
face—he watched Beauchamp’s approach with barely suppressed rage—it
was swollen and bruised, her lips split and bloodied.

Cursing profusely, Blaec dismounted with a vengeance,
unable to bear the sight of her, so abused, even an instant longer. Christ, but
he would kill the bastard!

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.