Once Upon a Kiss

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  If only the same could be said of his brother.

  Even after he’d been gone a full sennight, the image of his smoldering green eyes as he’d gazed upon her there in the shadows of the forest haunted her still.

  She tried to forget.

  The following morning, after searching most of the premise, Dominique found Graeham in the chapel, on his knees at prayer. To her wonder, he never acknowledged her presence, nor did he so much as turn to discover who it was that had invaded his sanctuary, though the echo of her footfalls reverberated throughout the shrine. The sound was a blasphemy within the quiet stillness of the hallowed chamber. Still, she could not turn and leave, not without speaking to him at last.

  Then, too, she was loath to intrude, and so she sat, watching, waiting. To her disbelief, he knelt as though made of solid stone, unmoving, his head bent steadfastly in prayer. If she did not know better—know that he was flesh and blood—she would have thought him some beautiful creation, the effigy of an angel, for with his golden hair and flawless profile, he seemed unreal.

  And then perhaps he was, for though Dominique sat near an hour’s time, he still did not turn to recognize her. She chafed, for if it was his intent to wound her with his indifference, then he full well succeeded. It was as though he sensed it was her, and refused to acknowledge her. Or perhaps he truly was oblivious to her presence, so deep was he in his meditation. Either way, it boded ill for her.

  Tears sprang to her eyes, as she began to feel with an undeniable certainty that this alliance was little more than a farce. Though not in the same way that his brother did, Graeham roused her distemper. Like a madwoman, she wanted to fly at him and pummel him with her fist, wanted to command him to give her answers. Was she destined to go from her brother, who treated her with little more affection, to this? Was she never to be valued? How could she have ever dared to hope?

  Swallowing the lump that rose in her throat, choking her, she rose and fled the chapel before she could disgrace herself.

  “I’ve no idea what else to do, Alyss. He is like a statue, unfeeling!”

  “Forgive me, m’lady,” Alyss suggested, “but perhaps you should try harder when you are with him, rather than lie in wait like this? If he is unprepared to see you, perhaps he will be unkind?”

  Dominique turned from the solar window to face her maid, her cheeks suffused with angry color. “Nay, Alyss, but he is too politic to be unkind! He wounds with his actions, instead.” Her shoulders slumped dejectedly.

  “M’lady, forgive me, but I think you mistake him.” Dominique’s brows lifted, though she said nothing, and Alyss continued, undaunted. “You see... I have watched him,” she said somewhat wistfully. “He is kind and gentle to those who serve him. Aye,” she persisted, when Dominique looked disbelieving still. “Tis my feeling he does not seek to cause you woe. There is something between these two brothers, though I cannot place it as yet... something... and it seems to me you are merely the straw that bent the camel’s back.”

  “How would you know?”

  “As I said, m’lady... I’ve been watching,” Her face stained crimson. “Tis fortunate you are to have him,” she added quickly, lowering her head. She sampled the mead she was stirring within the small pitcher she held over the candle flame. “Ack!” she exclaimed, making a sour face. “That is the most horrid concoction I have ever troubled myself to warm! We must have something to mask the taste.”

  Dominique found it difficult to care overmuch at the moment what, if anything at all, was used to spice Drakewich’s beverages.

  “Perhaps ’tis flavored to a man’s taste,” she suggested with some resentment, and refrained from adding that she cared not a whit to improve it. If it was bitter, then it would match their lord’s temperament—regardless of what Alyss claimed.

  “Nay, m’lady,” Alyss countered. “Your own brother prefers it sweet. For truth, I used to warm it for him with pearmain and honey.” She stopped stirring and sighed, seeming suddenly forlorn, and then as swiftly as the look appeared, it fled, and she began again to stir, her expression shuttered.

  Dominique wondered what she might be thinking, but refrained from asking. The maid, she knew, had borne a grievous life as well, for her father had awarded her even before her thirteenth summer to William, in exchange for what, Dominique knew not. But to go from lord’s daughter, to leman, to lady’s maid, could not have been an easy burden to bear. Particularly when she should have married and been mistress of her own domain.

  Dominique sighed. She’d heard, though not through William, that her brother had taken a fancy to Alyss during a visit he’d once paid to her father at Kester. Alyss had come to Amdel the following summer after her first blood.

  “At any rate,” Alyss continued, breaking into her thoughts. The maid glanced up from her task, smiling. “I should share with you something a very wise woman once said to me.”

  Dominique could not help but return the maid’s smile, though it failed to reach her heart. “What wise woman is that?” she asked somberly.

  Alyss’ smile deepened, reaching clear into her gentle brown eyes. “My mother,” she replied softly, and with reverence. And once again her expression was dreamy. “She would say to me... ‘Alyss, dearling... sometimes a woman must take matters into her own hands. She must do what she must.’” Her eyes glazing slightly, she nodded, meeting Dominique’s gaze. “’Tis what she said to me, all right, though I didn’t understand it then.”

  Dominique felt a momentary pang of loss; both for Alyss and for herself. Her own mother had never lived long enough to dispense any such advice. And Alyss... Dominique didn’t know which was worse, to have a mother’s love, and then lose it, or to never have known it at all. “And do you now? Understand, that is.”

  Alyss’ eyes shadowed as she returned her attention to warming the mead. “At times I do,” she said without glancing up again, her voice without inflection.

  “Alyss...” Dominique’s heart lurched at the question she felt obliged to ask. If her brother had been the one to harm Alyss... she just didn’t think she could bear it. “I was wondering... Her gaze averted to the window, and then came back to scrutinize Alyss. “The bruises,” she prompted. “How—”

  Alyss’ head snapped up, and her eyes were once more like those of a caged beast. She shook her head. “Do not ask me, m’lady, for I will not speak of—”

  “Ladies?”

  Startled by the unexpected male voice, both Alyss and Dominique glanced up to spy Graeham standing there, his expression one of surprise. Dominique’s heart tumbled a little. She’d known he would have to pass this way in order to find his chamber, and she’d hoped to speak with him at long last. But he didn’t appear overly pleased with their presence in his solar. Nevertheless, she bolstered herself, knowing they could not go on much longer as they had.

  “My lord,” she began, “I... I had hoped...” Her gaze skittered toward Alyss. With her eyes, Alyss beckoned her on, urged her to continue. “Aye, well...” Her gaze returned to Graeham. “You see, we... we...”

  “We were warming the mead for you, m’lord,” Alyss interjected softly, without glancing up from her task.

  “Aye!” Dominique exclaimed at once. “Please, please, my lord, do come in and sit awhile.” She rushed forward when he removed his mantle, and offered to take it from him. He hesitated, holding it back from her. Dominique peered up at him, refusing to shed a single tear if he refused her, but her hand clutched the rich woolen cloth with a desperation that shamed her. To her relief, he released it into her keeping, saying nothing, nodding. She hurried with it into his chamber, beyond the screen, and placed it upon his bed, returning within the instant.

  Hope sprang within her as she stood there staring at the man promised to become her husband. Perhaps they could make it work, after all? Perhaps all was not lost. “We were... wondering, my lord... i-if you had spices... for the wine?”

  His chest heaved, as though with a weary sigh. “In the pantry,” he relented.
And then he turned and made his way to, and seated himself within, the nearest chair, facing them.

  Giddy with excitement, Dominique raced to the pantry, giving it a cursory search and removing from it honey and nutmeg and, a little reluctantly, a small container of vin aigre in the absence of pearmain, or bitter fruit. Racing back, she brought them to Alyss, but Alyss, to her surprise, refused them. Instead, the maid rose, requesting her leave, complaining of a sour stomach and mumbling something of women doing what they must. And then, with nary another word, she departed the chamber. Dominique smiled as she watched Alyss go, head bowed and clutching her belly, thinking her a crafty soul indeed.

  “Well...” Dominique’s gaze reverted to Graeham. She smiled shyly. “My lord... I pray you’ve a hearty stomach,” she said with an awkward attempt at humor. “I’m sorry to say I’ve not Alyss’ talents.”

  Graeham smiled haggardly. “We shall manage,” he answered with a terse nod. He sat, watching her, as though it pained him to remain in the same room alone with her.

  It didn’t matter. Dominique refused to be thwarted. If it pained him, so be it. He would bear it—as she had borne his lack of attention these weeks past. “Aye, well... it will be done in no time at all,” she promised, and smiled brightly. At once she took over where Alyss had left off, lifting up the pitcher by the wooden handle and setting it carefully over the flame. While Graeham sat, watching, she stirred in the nutmeg, and then the honey, tasting it at intervals.

  To her dismay, the silence between them lengthened, and became an awkward thing, but Dominique was determined to find a bridge between them.

  “I am sorry, Lady Dominique, if this has been difficult for you,” Graeham said suddenly.

  Setting down the pitcher with trembling hands, Dominique left off her task to face him, uncertain of what to say. His eyes seemed as tormented as her own. Truly he was a handsome man, even more so when he smiled. Why couldn’t she make him smile the way he had that first time?

  “My lord... I just don’t understand.”

  His sigh was weary, rueful. “I know.”

  “Have I—”

  “It is naught you’ve done,” he broke in. “In truth, I wish I could explain—” he shook his head “—but I can’t.”

  “I see,” Dominique said, but she didn’t see at all. She lowered her head, lifting up the pitcher of mead, tasting from it. “‘Tis too sweet,” she said softly, trying to remain composed.

  Silence.

  Dominique swallowed her pride. Her voice wavered. “My lord... I wish to be a good wife to you.”

  He was silent a moment longer, and then said with quiet certainty, “You shall be a good wife, Lady Dominique. I never doubted it.”

  Heartened by his remark, Dominique faced him once more, and his eyes were warm, but regretful.

  “All will turn out as it should,” he promised, nodding, his eyes filling with some unnamed emotion. “I never meant to hurt you, Lady Dominique. Please remember that.”

  Dominique’s spirits fell. Why did she feel it was an apology for something yet to come? Nodding, afraid to hear any more, she lifted up, though reluctantly, the pitcher of vin aigre. Her hands quivering, she poured a meager amount within... and then... God help her, she heard his voice below, and his ensuing footfalls as he climbed the stairs.

  Her heart leapt into her throat.

  A myriad of emotions swept through Dominique as she awaited his appearance in the doorway: disappointment, terror, and aye... whether she wished to deny it, or not... anticipation. Her belly fluttered nervously.

  Graeham rose at once to greet him, embracing him in the doorway and clapping him enthusiastically on the back. Blaec responded in kind... until he spied Dominique over Graeham’s shoulder... and his hand stilled in midair.

  Their gazes met, locked.

  That same look passed between them: dread, turmoil, denial... guilt... too many emotions to name.

  He turned abruptly away, patting his brother, embracing him more fully.

  “’Tis quite a cozy scene I’ve discovered here,” he said lightly, casting Dominique a suddenly dispassionate glance. She swallowed convulsively, for with little more effort than it had taken him to blink, he’d cast all emotion from his dark visage—at least where she was concerned. His eyes, while they were upon his brother, were full of genuine affection.

  What a fool she was to attach herself to this man! She averted her gaze, though her heart continued to thump traitorously.

  “God’s blood,” Blaec complained, “but with no remorse at all, you send me to sleep on leaves and stones whilst you carry on in comfort with your bride.” In her peripheral vision, she saw that he cuffed Graeham’s arm lightly with a fist. “Well done,” he said. “’Tis about time.”

  “Guilty,” Graeham countered. “I confess it.”

  “You confess far too much,” Blaec remarked softly.

  Watching them, Dominique had the distinct impression that their banter was less than mirthful though there was genuine affection between them; that much was evident in their easy manner and in their gazes. These two brothers—these twins from birth, who appeared nothing alike— shared much more than conception in a single womb. It seemed to her they shared, if not love, then a mutual admiration for each other. And both seemed equally protective of one another.

  Graeham chuckled richly. “Perhaps, but who else would pray for your soul, my dear brother? You are lost without me,’ he said glibly.

  Blaec’s lips curved slightly and he conceded a chuckle. “In truth I would be,” he admitted without hesitation.

  “There you have it, then,” Graeham argued with good humor, and then he pivoted toward Dominique. “Lady Dominique! Bring forth a cupful of that warm, spiced mead for my weary brother.”

  It took Dominique an instant to realize that she was staring. Curse him, but he only seemed to grow more handsome every time she saw him. Even unshaven as he was, he was breathtaking. Nay, it was not the angelic beauty his brother possessed, but Alyss was right... he looked unmistakably a man. In truth, looking at him now, it was difficult to believe he’d ever been a boy, for his eyes were those of a man who’d witnessed far too much. They were the eyes of a man who’d lived a lifetime already, and they were in deep contrast with his otherwise youthful features.

  She wondered how old he was, for he seemed in ways as ancient as sin. And in other ways... there was something nestled deep in his expression that made her yearn to reach out to him... comfort him.

  Too dangerous were these thoughts—dangerous and reckless. Besides, he didn’t need comforting, she was certain.

  “... not a damned thing,” she heard Blaec say crossly. “There was no sign of the bastards.”

  Once and for all, Dominique shook herself free of her private thoughts, and glanced down into the pitcher of simmering mead. And then she peered at the empty container of vin aigre still in her hand. A strangled sound escaped her. Sweet Christ, she’d emptied the vin aigre in its entirety into the pitcher!

  “Lady Dominique?”

  Merciful God—all of it. Wide eyed with the discovery, Dominique faced Graeham’s inquiring gaze, her heart racing, her stomach knotting. “M-My lord!” she exclaimed.

  “The mead,” Graeham demanded. His pale brows drew together in disapproval. “Bring it.”

  “But... but, my lord!” Her mind raced for an excuse. “It is not done yet!”

  “Ludicrous!” he said. “I’ve watched you give it exceptional care these past twenty minutes. If it warms any longer, there’ll be naught left of it to drink. Bring it now.”

  Dominique gritted her teeth. She had to fight the urge to narrow her eyes at him, telling herself that it would serve him right did his brother die poisoned right before him. If he wanted her to feed his brother rancid mead, then so be it! “Very well, my lord,” she answered. She straightened her spine. In fact she thought she might take great pleasure in witnessing such a scene. By the saints! They deserved one another, these two brothers! She set
down the container, and using both hands, poured from the pitcher, filling the cup she’d left to one side full to the brim.

  Pasting on her sweetest smile, she rose and conveyed the cup to Blaec, offering it to him. For an instant he simply stood gazing at her, and Dominique’s temper flared. Her heart tripped as well, but she refused to be cowed by him, not this time.

  Her chin rose a notch. “My lord... perhaps you would like me to spoon it to you, as well,” she suggested impertinently, blinking prettily. By God, she’d like to pour it down his blessed throat! She found herself wishing fervently that Graeham d’Lucy had no brother at all. More than that even, she wished she’d never set eyes upon this accursed place!

  He received it from her and Dominique immediately excused herself. She was no fool, and she had absolutely no intention of remaining here to see whether he collapsed to the floor, clutching at his throat in agony. Graeham relented with a nod, and Dominique hurried toward the door.

  “Aarrgghhh!”

  Hearing the strangled sound, Dominique froze. Though she willed her feet to run, flee, she could not move them from the place she stood to save her soul. She whirled to face him and found him gagging, spewing mead and swiping at his mouth.

  “God’s bloody teeth!” he exclaimed. “’Tis poison!”

  “I can explain,” she offered at once.

  He spun to face her, his visage wrathful. “Please try, demoiselle!” He hurled the contents of the cup down upon the wooden floor at her feet.

  Dominique took a step backward at the menacing look in his eyes. Her expression screwed. Her voice faltered. “I... I... it was an accident,” she swore.

  “Another bloody accident, demoiselle? How damned convenient!”

  “I swear it is the truth, my lord. It was an accident,” she insisted. “I was warming the mead when...” Sweet Mary, how could she explain? She was warming the mead when she heard his voice and started. The thought of seeing him again was so distressing that she’d spilled the entire contents of the vin aigre bottle without even realizing. She’d rather swallow boiling pitch. “Fine!” she snapped. “I tried to poison you, then! Believe it, if you will! I only wish I’d succeeded,” she spat. And then without another word, she lifted her skirts and raced from the solar.