Once Upon a Kiss (15 page)

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.

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 Graeham 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.