Once Upon a Kiss (29 page)

He felt numb as he watched his brother ride within
the bailey, his mount enervated and frothing at the mouth, his back so stiff in
the saddle that it appeared he’d been propped with a lance up his arse... and
yet his head lolled to one side with a sickening lameness.

The blood drained from Blaec’s face as he watched
Graeham ride toward him, and he shook his head denying the sight, even as his
eyes held witness to it. Hastening to Graeham’s side, he was relieved to find
that Graeham’s eyes were open and aware, though scarcely. Seeing him, Graeham
stiffened. His eyes brightened, and he attempted to lift his head, as though to
reassure Blaec, and for an instant their gazes met, held. His cracked lips
parted to speak.

One word: “Beauchamp.” And then his eyes suddenly rolled
backward into his head and he collapsed where he sat, sliding off his
blood-encrusted mount and into Blaec’s arms.

Seeing his brother’s leaden face, Blaec could
scarcely speak. His throat constricted.

“Graeham,” he rasped. He heard himself give a low,
keening cry, and then he clenched his jaw, and closed his throat, knowing he
could not reveal his emotions.

With a savage cry, he lifted up his brother’s limp
body into his arms, his eyes glazing, and started toward the keep, meeting
brilliant sapphire-blue eyes as he turned.

His rage spiraled to new heights, for he saw only
her brother’s face.

He was vaguely aware that someone tried to aid him
in carrying Graeham’s body, but he turned on the man, snarling. ‘Touch him and
I’ll skewer you through.” Though Graeham slipped from his grasp, he wanted no
other hands upon him. He wanted to carry the burden alone. He
needed
to
carry the burden alone. Would that he could exchange places with
him—gladly, he would do so if he could.

Nial backed away, his arms falling to his sides.
“We were ambushed,” he revealed, crestfallen. His boyish face was dirty and
streaked with sweat and blood, but his eyes were somber like those of a man
who’d witnessed too much death. Blaec knew only too well what the boy was
experiencing, for he, too, recalled his first battle. Only too well. And if he
ever dared to forget, he need only see his reflection to recall.

“They attacked not long after we left London,”
Nial continued.

Carrying his brother’s deadweight, Blaec made his
way toward the donjon, his expression unyielding as stone. “Beauchamp?” he
asked with barely suppressed fury. “He did this?” He wanted to be
certain—needed to be certain, because he intended to rip the bastard’s
throat apart.

Nial nodded, averting his face and casting Dominique
a withering glance.

Trying desperately to keep pace, Dominique
stumbled along beside them, her face stricken.

For her brother? Blaec wondered bitterly. God damn
her to hell! Certainly not for Graeham.

“Nay!” she exclaimed, her breasts heaving, her
face crumpling with the news. “It cannot be so! You lie! My brother would never
do such a thing!”

Blaec gave her a piercing glance for her
indefatigable defense of the bastard. Lest he spit in her face, he ignored her,
unable to deal with her at the moment—and less with their treachery
against the man who lay so helpless within his arms.

His brother.

Christ... his brother...

What kind of a man was he, that he would allow his
brother, his kin, his liege, to fight and die on the battlefield whilst he was
here... cuckolding him with his new bride, the sister of his nemesis?

He glanced down at his brother’s face and thought
his chest would cleave in two. “My God... did you not seek a physic?” he asked
Nial. “He appears as though he’s bled for days.”

“My lord,” Nial defended, his young face
collapsing with his guilt, “he would let no one rest till we arrived here. We
tried—we did... we tried to reason with him, but he feared Beauchamp
would come here next, and he would not be eased until you were warned.”

Blaec cursed roundly. “How many fell upon you?”

‘Too many to count,” Nial answered quickly.

“How many perished?”

“We lost nine,” the youth revealed. “But we
returned the number of dead,” he said with some dignity, “and I... I killed a
man,” he yielded, without emotion.

Blaec listened to the youth prattle on, scarcely
aware of those who followed as he carried Graeham into the keep, up the stairs,
beyond the solar and into the lord’s chamber.

Benumbed with grief and regret, and beleaguered
with unanswered questions, he placed his brother’s limp form upon their
father’s bed, and then, raking a hand across his shadowed jaw, snapped out at
Nial, “Go...” His voice failed him. He swallowed. “Go, lad, and seek the
priest...”

Dominique stepped forward, desperate to aid them
if she could. She wrung her hands, feeling dizzy with the thoughts that whirled
through her mind. William could not have done this thing...
he could not
have.
She refused to believe that he would... There had to be some mistake.

“You... you must allow Alyss to tend him,” she
entreated. “Leave the priest for those who are dead.”

Though she was aware that all eyes fell upon her
suddenly, she felt only his.

His condemning glare tore at her heart.

“Alyss would know what is best for him,” she
reasoned, her eyes stinging with hot tears.

“Why should I trust your brother’s whore?” Blaec
barked at her, his green eyes glittering coldly.

Dominique gulped in a breath, taken aback by his
anger. She tried to catch her next breath and found a sob caught in her throat.
“She is...” She blinked back tears, unable to find a response for the truth.
“She is skilled in the simples…” She averted her gaze, fighting back bitter
tears. “I swear to you, my lord...” Her voice faltered and her lips trembled.
She shook her head miserably, covering her mouth as she met his gaze once more,
her eyes pleading with him. “Alyss would no more harm him than she would...
than she would me. Let her tend him... please...”

For a moment he said nothing, though his eyes
impaled her, and then he said evenly, “It seems there is little choice,
demoiselle, for Drakewich has no physic in residence. Fetch her, then, and
quickly,” he snapped.

Dominique nodded and turned to go at once,
relieved to leave his presence, for her heart was breaking and she wanted no
eyes to witness her pain.

He blamed her, she knew.

She could see it in his eyes.

“Tell her this for me, Lady Dominique,” he called
after her, stopping her cold with the scarcely veiled malevolence in his tone.
“Should he die by her hands... I will lay her head upon a pike beside that of
your brother’s. Tell her that, if you would... and then, while you are at it,
demoiselle, pray to God for your brother’s black soul, because ’tis his blood I
will seek come tomorrow’s first light.”

Dominique’s limbs threatened to fail her, but she
nodded jerkily, choking back a sob at his hateful words. To think that only
moments before they had laughed together... hoped together. In anguish, she
covered her mouth with her hand as she fled the chamber.

Jesu, but she could not bear it. This could not be
happening. Her brother had not done this to Graeham! He could not have!

Because he would have known that he would place
her at risk with his actions. And he would not do so.

Would he?

Nay, but there had to be some other explanation.

With that self-assurance, she swiped the tears
from her face, and vowed that as soon as she found and apprised Alyss of her
duties, she would set out to discover the truth.

Even if it meant going to William.

There was no way she could stand idly by and allow
Blaec to kill her brother for some imagined wrong. She had to warn him.

More than that, even, she had to know the truth.

“He but sleeps, m’lord,” Alyss said, coming to
stand timidly before him, “The wound at his breast is deep, but he is strong
and has the will to live.”

Relief sucked the breath from Blaec, choking off
whatever words he might have spoken. Though he tried, he could not find his
voice. He nodded.

Hanging her head, taking in a visibly shaky
breath, the maid reached into her apron, hesitating, and then produced a vial
for him. “I...” She took another shuddering breath and then handed him the
ampule for his inspection. “You must give this to him... a few drops when he
awakens,” she instructed him, swallowing, meeting his gaze with some
difficulty. “But no more than a few...”

Blaec examined the small liquid-filled vial, and
then returned his gaze to hers, narrowing his eyes warily. “What is it?”

She held his gaze, he noted, even as he saw her
flinch at his question. “T-Tincture of hemlock, m-m’lord.”

Blaec arched a brow at her, his Lips thinning at
her disclosure. “You carry hemlock about with you?” he inquired suspiciously.
“Why?”

Her face reddened at the question, and she averted
her gaze, shrugging nervously, and then shaking her head. And then again she
met his gaze, lifting her chin, her eyes revealing that same cornered stare
he’d spied in them once before... the night he’d questioned her about her
bruises.

“’Twas g-given to me,” she answered softly,
guiltily.

“Given to you?”

She closed her eyes, and shivered, nodding
jerkily. “Aye, m’lord. Given to me.”

God help him, he understood, and once again rage
barreled through him.

“Goddamned bastard!”

He’d intended all along to murder Graeham. His
thoughts fled back to the forest... and then to the mead Dominique had been
brewing... and he was afraid to hear any more lest he learn what he did not
wish to know.

Still... he had to discern the extent of their
treachery—had to be certain. “William gave it to you, Alyss?”

She would not look at him now. “Aye, m’lord.”

Blaec braced himself, and then demanded, “Does
your mistress know this?” Though he told himself his heart was hardened against
her, he held his breath for her answer.

She shook her head, meeting his gaze, and said
with quiet certainty, “Nay, m’lord, she does not.”

He felt the breath leave his lungs—he wanted
to believe her.
Too
much.
For Graeham’s sake, he could not allow himself to be led blindly. Not
when Graeham’s life depended upon his prudence. “And why do you tell me this
now?” he asked skeptically, unable as of yet to perceive her motives.

“Because, m’lord…” She glanced at Graeham’s body,
lying so still upon his bed, and then back into his eyes. “Because I cannot do
it—and he will need the tincture when he wakens, m’lord. Hemlock is good
for pain, as well, but in small doses. Yet...”

“Speak,” he commanded her impatiently. “Now is not
the time to hold your tongue, woman.”

“Aye... well... you see... too little will not
serve him at all... though too much might leave him lame—or even kill
him, as you well know… and this recipe... ’tis particularly dangerous, for I-I
prepared it strong... and... and I did not wish to risk it... not if...”

He cocked a brow. “Not if I meant to place your
head on a pike?” he finished for her.

She blinked, but did not turn away.

“I see.” With some reservation, he handed the vial
back to her, his face as rigid as stone. He went to his brother’s side, lifting
the coverlet up, as though to shelter him from the draft.

His fingers lingered upon his brother’s hand, the
hand he had once sworn fealty to.

She hadn’t had to tell him anything at all, he acknowledged.
She might have simply used the tincture while his back was turned... or once he
was healed, even... once she no longer thought herself at risk. “Do you love
the bastard?” he asked her suddenly, his tone calm despite his raging fury.

For an instant, she didn’t respond. And then she
replied emphatically, “Nay, m’lord. He... he did beat me oft.”