It occurred to him suddenly that, while she had fine, new gowns—one less after he'd all but destroyed the one fashioned of his own stolen cloth—the majority of her garments were thread-worn and long outmoded. It implied that, for all his pretty words, her brother did not value her overmuch. The fact that he'd simply left her, without remaining to witness a ceremony, had seemed strange at the time... yet now it began to make sense. Nay, William could not value her, or he would have remained—regardless of the hostilities that lay between them.
If she had been his own blood, he would have remained by her side, until the last instant, guarding her honor.
He found himself regretting that he'd destroyed the crimson gown. It was no wonder she'd worn it so oft—and no wonder she'd taken such pride in the accursed thing. It was likely the only thing her brother had gifted her with in years. His gaze was drawn to her coffers—merely two, confirming his suspicions. That she should have so little baggage for all her worldly possessions was inconceivable. His gut twisted with the realization, and he found himself wishing he could bestow other gowns upon her. Found himself wishing that it were his right to do so.
Forsooth, he found himself wishing she were his bride... that he might shower her with all that her heart desired.
His gaze returned to her. She stood proudly, though her eyes were fraught with apprehension, and he could not help but recall the way she'd protected her brother, defended him, even when the bastard did not deserve it—nay, he'd not missed William's bow being lowered in the forest. But he'd not been wholly certain, and so he'd let it pass. Still, while he could bring himself to believe that it had been an accident—and it may well have been, though he sorely doubted it—he knew as he gazed at the woman standing before him that she was innocent of her brother's treachery.
A vision of her hastening after him in the bailey when first she'd arrived at Drakewich, defending her brother's honor against his insinuations and outright accusations accosted him.
Why was it the unloved fought so hard to gain what could not be held?
The question tormented him, for he could have been speaking of himself. He cleared his throat, glancing out the window. From this side of the keep, the moon was rarely visible. Once more, the night was black, the stars too far and too few to lend their meager light. He was glad she held a taper.
Tonight he wanted to see her.
She stood unmoving, her exquisite sapphire eyes fixed upon him... as though she feared what he would do next... what he would say. Her breasts rose and fell softly. Recalling the way he'd awakened this morn, cradling her soft flesh beneath his palm, he was undone.
"Where were you going at this late hour?" he asked hoarsely. His heart hammered against his ribs.
Her brows drew together and she shuddered, though the chamber was not cold. "I..." She glanced away, closing her eyes, swallowing.
And he knew.
Yet how could he blame her for something he could not even control in himself? He thought to put her at ease, to tell her so. "Last night happened by no fault of your own," he said honestly. ‘The fault was mine."
She peered up at him, shaking her head, her eyes welling with tears. "Nay..." She averted her gaze to the bed. "If... if only it were so," she replied miserably.
"Last night was inevitable, Dominique." As tonight would be. He swallowed thickly, for betrayal was no easier the second time around. But he could not help himself. "I..." He, too, glanced away, his heart hammering. "I could not stay away," he said with no small amount of self-contempt.
For an instant the silence engulfed them, surrounded them, a silence in which the beating of their hearts ticked the seconds by, drew them out to agonizing lengths.
Her features screwed with anguish as she faced him again, her eyes gleaming with unshed tears. "I—I did not want you to stay away," she confessed with trembling lips.
Blaec needed to hear no more.
Dominique cried out softly at the intensity in his gaze. He moved toward her with purpose, and God's truth, she thought she would swoon. Without a word, he removed the candlestick from her hands, placing it down upon the coffer beside them. Its light shone between them, casting their distorted images upon the whitewashed ceiling.
She gasped in surprise as he knelt at her feet, touching her hem. He glanced up at her as he lifted up her chainse, silently pleading for her consent. She gave him a jerky nod, and her heart pummeled against her ribs as he bent and touched his lips to the bare skin of her calf. Gooseflesh arose and spread, like wildfire, to her arms. Her breasts ached for his touch.
With a soft cry, her head lolled backward as his lips began a slow ascent upon her legs, first one and then the other. Above her, the orange light of the taper played their every motion against the ceiling. Erotic. Every muscle in her body tautened as he moved up the length of her body, inch by inch, lifting the chainse mere fractions each time.
Merciful heaven, she thought she would die with the exquisite pleasure!
His tongue and his lips, they worshiped her, lapping and kissing, nipping at the sensitive flesh of her inner thighs until Dominique swore she could bear it no longer.
She could not speak to stop him when he lifted the chainse even higher, to the apex above her thighs. Her legs trembled traitorously. Clutching the cloth of her gown within his fist, he held it at her belly as his mouth rose, finding and exploring her most secret parts. She swallowed convulsively.
All the while she watched the ceiling, seeing their shadows in motion, her heart tripping wildly.
Dominique felt her legs buckle beneath her, but he was there to catch her. Crying out, she fell to her knees, facing him.
His arms entwined about her, crushing her. "Shall I continue?" he asked, his whisper harsh and rasping.
Dominique could not speak. Though she was not certain she could bear it, she nodded, and he proceeded to lift her chainse up and over her head, discarding it.
"I want to see you," he whispered. "All of you... here by the candlelight."
Dominique could not have spoken to refuse him, even if she'd wished to. But she didn't. Once she was bared to his eyes, he merely stared, without touching her, his hands at his sides. And then he lifted one hand to her breast, touching it, cradling it reverently. And then the other. Dominique swallowed, moaning, unable to speak, unable to think when he touched her so tenderly.
Her breath quickened.
One hand left her breast, traveling down her side, her waist, her hip, as though measuring her, and then he retraced his path upwards, exploring her sensuously, and in that moment Dominique wanted to see him as well, give back to him what he gave to her.
Her heart pounding, she reached out to touch the hem of his tunic as he'd done with her chainse. Their eyes met, and he nodded, giving her leave. Her heart tumbled at her brazenness, but she would not stop. Following his lead, she lifted his tunic, up and over his head, letting it fall from her hands to the floor to lie with her own discarded gown.
Before she could think to stop herself, before she could lose her nerve, she leaned over and touched her lips to his smooth chest. He groaned, his hands going to her waist to hold her, telling her without words that he approved. As never before in her life, Dominique was filled with euphoria.
She wanted to please him. Wanted to love him. Wanted him to love her. She wanted to give him anything he desired, everything she owned... her mind, her body, her heart.
Remembering all that he'd done to her the night before, she sought and found his nipples, lapping them, kissing him, each in turn. Her teeth closed about one peak, and his head fell back, the cords in his neck revealing the tautness of his body. Once again, Dominique felt triumph, even as his response to her touch brought her own body pleasure. Somewhere deep within her, she reveled in the feel of his body, and it roused her as she'd never thought possible.
Eagerly she explored his chest with her hands and her mouth, rejoicing in the way that his muscles leapt at her every touch.
"Dominique," h
e rasped. "I cannot bear it." He reached out, seizing her hand, taking her fingers where he willed them most—the ties of his breeches.
Her heart leaping with the silent request, Dominique obeyed, unlacing them at once. They fell discarded to his knees, revealing him to her eager eyes. Again her heart tripped, but for the longest time, she could only stare.
He was magnificent.
Once again, he reached out, taking one of her hands from her side. Bringing it between them, his eyes never leaving hers, he unfolded her fingers, one by one, until she was left with an open fist. Bringing her fingers to his lips, he kissed them one by one, suckling them, wetting them, and then without a word, he lowered her hand to his shaft, guiding her fingers to close about it. She inhaled sharply, the beat of her heart quickening, but she did not resist. She held him, her own body convulsing privately with the feel of him against her palm.
Nor was he unaffected, for he closed his eyes, and his body jerked slightly, his hand falling away.
"I've yearned for this—" he swallowed visibly "—since the day you bathed me," he told her honestly, and then he gazed at her once more, his eyes glittering as though with fever.
Dominique could not find her voice to speak. Nor could she move. She continued to kneel before him, without the first clue as to what he wished of her, her breast heaving. He seemed to understand her dilemma, for he chuckled softly, richly, and the sound was as arousing to her as the feel of his body within her hand.
Smiling, the first true smile she'd ever spied upon his beautiful lips, he moved within her fist, once, twice, and then again, and Dominique was undone. Her body suffused with heat. "Please," she cried out, panting softly.
He withdrew, and reached out, sweeping her up into his arms. He lifted her, carrying her swiftly to the bed. Though unlike the night before, he laid her down gently, and then stood, staring down at her, saying nothing. And then he lay down upon her, slowly, fitting his body against her own. Dominique welcomed his weight, gripping the bed sheets, lifting her knees instinctively. Again he chuckled, and the sound was ambrosia to her senses. He found her, impaled her slowly, embedding himself, and then he stilled.
"Show me what you want," he commanded her softly, lifting himself and bracing his weight upon his arms to give her room.
At first Dominique could not quite comprehend what he asked of her, and then she did. She began to move beneath him, moaning with the extraordinary sensations that burst through her.
She wanted this to last an eternity, wanted it to never end...
At first the pace was slow, and then, though she tried to restrain herself, she quickened it, gasping aloud when he joined her movements. Instinctively Dominique wrapped her legs about his thighs, bringing him closer against her, wanting him deeper still.
She surged upward, impaling herself further, and then the pace was lost to them both as their bodies took over the mating ritual.
Crying out, whimpering, Dominique met his every thrust, drawing him deeper each time. Until it seemed he touched her very core. In that instant her body shattered into a thousand brilliant pieces.
And still he did not stop.
He loved her fiercely, seeking his own release, and Dominique's heart leapt higher and higher with each stroke. Until she thought she would die. He brought her to yet another release, and then with a last rousing thrust, he cast his head backward, crying out savagely.
He collapsed atop her, burying his face against her neck, and Dominique held him, stroking his back, running her fingers through the length of his hair.
With all her might, she fought the desire to tell him that she loved him.
Chapter Twenty-One
Waiting for his summons, Graeham paced the hall outside of King Stephen's apartments. Though he'd arrived in London early yesterday, he'd waited until today to seek counsel with the king. He was certain Stephen would never have denied him, but he'd waited out of respect, not wanting to appear before his sovereign begrimed from the journey. Well rested now, and tidied, he was prepared to make his request, unconventional as it might be.
Well aware that Stephen would think him mad, he was nevertheless determined. Too long he'd contemplated this—since the day of his mother's death, in truth. Had she lived, he knew she would have approved.
The door opened at last, and he was beckoned within. Sucking in a fortifying breath, he followed the king's chamberlain to the hall where the king waited. In a chamber full with the bounty of his twenty-year reign, Stephen stood in plain dress at the window with his back to Graeham, gazing out, his pale hair revealing little of his gray.
"Sire," the chamberlain said.
Stephen peered back over his shoulder, and remarked, "D'Lucy... I am surprised to see you. In truth, I would have thought you preoccupied with your new bride." He nodded to his chamberlain. "Leave us now," he said softly, and then waited patiently for the chamberlain to comply.
Graeham straightened his shoulders, resolved. "Aye, well, that is precisely the matter I wished to discuss with you, my lord... my, er, bride." He shifted uneasily under the king's watchful gaze.
"Really?" Stephen lifted his chin, turning now to face Graeham, adding offhandedly, "Are you aware, Graeham, that William Beauchamp is here at court, as well?"
Graeham was unable to hide his surprise. His brows lifted. "Nay, I certainly was not, my lord."
"Aye, well, he is. He awaits an audience with me, though as yet I've not had the stomach to grant it. Imagine my surprise to find you here, as well," he said as he came to stand before Graeham.
In deference, Graeham knelt before his sovereign, but Stephen waved him up. "We are alone," he said. "No need for such formalities. Tell me what brings you to London, my friend."
Graeham swallowed, and faced Stephen squarely. Once reputed to be the most comely man in England, at fifty-seven Stephen still wore his looks well. Yet his lackluster eyes bore a sorrow that Graeham knew came from the loss of his queen two years past. She had been his ally through the worst of his trials, and he would never truly overcome her passing. That, and the simple fact that he had no issue to whom he'd pass the crown, had led to his truce with Matilda.
"I've a queer request," Graeham yielded, "though one of which I feel quite strongly." When Stephen nodded, he continued. "I would have you confirm my father's lands, all of which I now hold, to my brother Blaec."
Stephen was taken aback, and his expression clearly revealed it. He made some staggered sound, and agreed, "‘Tis indeed a most irregular request. In fact, I have never come across such a petition in all my days." He shook his head incredulously. "Though I would welcome Blaec as lord of Drakewich, I must wonder, Graeham, why you would seek such a thing. 'Tis mad, indeed."
"Sire... I realize how this must sound, but 'tis simple. Blaec is both my brother and the rightful heir to my father's demesne. He is firstborn, and as such, deserves to hold what is his due. I'd not hold it any longer, for I feel I am not suited to lead my men—not as he is."
Stephen's expression turned grave. For the longest instant there was only silence between them. "I knew your mother, Graeham," he said. "I knew her well indeed, and I am well aware of that unfortunate truth. And yet... I would remind you that your father assigned you as his heir, not Blaec. That he is firstborn does not give him absolute right to succession. I fail to understand why you should wish that altered. I would loathe to think 'twas so, but you are not being coerced in this are you?"
"Nay, m'lord. I am not. ‘Tis simply that I am not the warrior my brother is," Graeham said, standing firm. "In truth, as you know me well enough to know I am not a coward in battle, I must admit to you that I've neither the stomach nor the heart to lead any longer."
Stephen's brows rose at his forthright answer. "I see. Though I must admit I find it difficult to believe that Blaec would agree to such an ill-advised proposition." He cocked his head.
Graeham's face colored. "Aye, well," he said, hedging, "the truth is that Blaec does not know as yet."
Stephe
n blinked incredulously. "He does not know?" He shook his head. "Allow me to repeat this lest I've misunderstood... You wish to bestow your lands upon your brother, and he is unaware of that fact?"
Graeham gave him a sheepish glance. "I believe that is the pith of it, sire."
"God's teeth, son! Why, by the birth of Christ, would you wish to do such a thing? Did I not know you better, I would think you unsound of mind! I feel certain in saying that if Blaec knew of this, Graeham, he would not only refuse it but think you as mad as I do."
"Perhaps." Graeham's expression remained sober. "Yet I must insist you consider my wishes."
Stephen made a sound something like choked laughter. "Brotherly devotion is a virtue, d'Lucy, but the two of you take it too far, I fear." He sighed wearily, heaving in a breath. "Ah, well, I cannot say as I understand, but if 'tis your wish, then so be it. It will be done."
Graeham knelt at once, seizing his sovereign's hand, kissing it fervently. "Thank you, sire! Thank you!"
Stephen nodded, retrieving his hand and raking it over his chin in bewilderment. "One thing, Graeham. Tell me one thing to make me comprehend this. Is your bride so hideous that you would give up so much not to wed with her?"
Graeham's face reddened. "Nay, my lord. She is fair enough."
"What, then, prithee?"
Graeham shrugged, searching for a plausible reason, one not quite so complicated, or embarrassing, as the truth. He shook his head. "I've a calling for the church," he said rather unassertively, his expression screwing.
"Good God, man! You must have one better than that!"
Graeham shook his head. "I fear not, sire."
Stephen sighed and shook his head. "Very well, then, d'Lucy. Have it as you will—though I wish you success in convincing your brother, for I doubt he will be as accepting as I."
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