Once Upon a Kiss

chapter 6





Across the chamber, tallow candles burned, emitting ribbons of ash smoke that curled upward toward the shadowy ceiling. William smiled, thinking of the blaze that raged beyond the castle walls, and his nostrils flared as he sat upon the small cot. He drew Alyss nearer, despite that she resisted. It mattered not that she did, for he relished this the most.

“M’lord,” she protested weakly. “I thought...”

“Shush, Alyss,” he demanded, for he knew precisely what it was she thought, and it pleased him not at all. He’d be damned if he’d refrain from partaking of her fleshly pleasures simply because she was now his sister’s lady’s maid.

Of course, she was no substitute for Dominique—never had been—and he silently cursed her for that.

Too bad his lovely sister was worth so little without her virtue, for he’d long coveted her within his bed. Too bad, too, that the fool church took such offense with incestus, else wise he would have taken her as his own bride.

It was how it should have been.

Nay, he felt no guilt for his private fancies—if anything, it was resentment he felt, for his little sister was much too lovely for the likes of Graeham d’Lucy. The fool was likely too chaste to understand what to do with a woman the likes of Dominique. He wouldn’t appreciate her.

Not like William would.

Well, it suited him well enough, for when all was said and done, Dominique would be back in his keeping, and the less she was befouled, the better.

Aye, and then he would tell her everything. He knew precisely what he would say...

Were it not that Dominique’s beauty alone had brought him so many marriage offers even before her first blood, he would have long ago proclaimed her a bastard and claimed her for his own. Yet now she would bring him the ultimate bride-price, and he smiled inwardly at the prospect. And in the end, she would be his again... and he would be whole again. The mere thought of it filled him with gratification.

Something in his expression must have eased Alyss, for after a moment she relented and stood before him, stilled at last. That’s what he liked most about her... that she learned quickly. Still, she had resisted him, and he could not risk her defiance just now. Not when so much depended upon her complete obeisance to him.

Positioning the maid none too gently into the space between his legs, he then bent, reaching into his boot to retrieve Dominique’s poniard. Alyss’ eyes widened at the sight of the small blade, but she dared say nothing, and he proceeded at once to slice the front of her gown, grinning with satisfaction at her expression of distress.

“M-M’lord,” she stammered.

His skin prickled in anticipation. “Shush, Alyss,” he whispered once more, but the command was no less menacing for its deceiving softness. Alyss complied at once and he peered up at her, his grin engaging in the shadows of the chamber. He drew her closer still, tossing the gleaming blade upon the bed. With satisfaction he watched as her eyes followed it, and then he commenced to parting her coarse gown, roughly, rending it until she was fully exposed to his eyes.

“Return the blade to my sister,” he commanded her softly, and then as she watched, he placed his lips to her breast. He took great satisfaction in the gasp she emitted, and despite the gleam of fear in her eyes, her flesh flushed rosy by the light of the candle. Her head fell back helplessly, and he chuckled deep in the back of his throat at her anticipated reaction. Drawing the nipple firmly into his mouth, he rolled it between his teeth, and then bit down until she cried out. He felt himself harden at her cry of pain and smiled softly against the warm flesh of her breast as her head came up and her eyes filled anew with apprehension.

“William,” she croaked, staring at him fearfully, yet she didn’t move, for he held her nipple firmly between his teeth. She was an intelligent little thing, and he felt she understood him perfectly.

“You have the ampule?” he asked through his teeth. She nodded, and he could feel the beat of her heart rise against his lips. He relished it. “And you understand when it is I wish for you to use it?” She nodded once again, and he sent his tongue on a gentle little foray of her young flesh, a reward, of sorts, for her acquiescence. “Good,” he whispered, releasing her. “Very good. As soon as they are wed, you should empty the vial into his wine,” he suggested. “I shan’t return until it is done.”

“W-What of the Dragon?” Alyss asked timidly. “W-What if he should suspect?”

“I will deal with the Dragon,” he whispered with loathing, and felt her quiver against him. That, too, pleased him, for it assured him that she feared him still.

His plan was infallible. Already, tonight, with the fire, he’d cast suspicion elsewhere—and it didn’t matter whether d’Lucy suspected him, or nay, only that later Stephen would be able to look back and see that there was another possible adversary. After all, what man would be witless enough to sabotage the d’Lucys and then sleep under their very roof? Certainly not he. He chuckled quietly at the notion.

Besides Stephen was unlikely to suspect William when there was already the promise of alliance between him and d’Lucy. Nor did he believe Stephen ultimately cared, for it was common knowledge already that upon his death, England would be forfeit to the empress’ heir. Why then should Stephen concern himself with petty wars?

And then... when Alyss poisoned Graeham so soon after the ceremony, once again he would be safe from suspicion at Stephen’s court. Of course, he would play the wounded brother and claim he’d not even been apprised of the ceremony. Perhaps he would suggest—with great regret, of course—that there may still have been some enmity on Graeham’s behalf toward him. And only then he would express his sorrow. Afterward, with Stephen’s blessings he would go and reclaim his sister as his ward. And along with her, his rightful lands.

Just as simple as that.

Still, it seemed an eternity before it would all come to pass. And Alyss was still not Dominique. Be that as it may, it would be easy enough to pretend in the darkness of the chamber. Sighing against Alyss’ plump, moist breast, he remembered a time when he and Dominique had been close. She’d been so young and tender then... the only one who had ever made him feel loved. All those times he’d trained during the sweltering summers—damn his father, for he’d not even had the regard to foster him— Dominique had wiped his brow with such sisterly affection.

His face heated even after all these years as he remembered that he’d walked about the first years of manhood plagued with guilt for the lust he bore his young sister. And then his father had mockingly confronted him—because he had been so obvious in his pining.

God’s blood, but his father had leapt at the opportunity to tell him that he, too, sometimes fancied Dominique within his own bed. Aye and that was when Henry Beauchamp had first expressed his doubt that he’d sired Dominique—perhaps to ease his own conscience, for it was too much to hope that it might be true. It was evident to any who might spy them together that father and daughter had the same look about them. It was that same look William and Dominique shared, as well.

Hearing his own contemptible desires upon his fathers lips had disgusted William so that he’d heartily denounced his own dark yearnings. Enraged, he’d dared to strike his sire in the belly for the quip. And then to prove him wrong, William had cast Dominique aside and out of his mind—as though she’d been no more significant to him than the mother he’d grown to despise.

With her infidelity, their damned mother had made his father bitter, and unappeasable... yet it was her saving grace that she’d borne Dominique before her death... for the only one thing William loved with a greater passion than his hatred for the d’Lucys... was his lovely little sister.

No longer did he feel the guilt. On the contrary... he’d long ago accepted that he was his father’s son. Aye, for if it meant having Dominique, he didn’t care. The merest thought of either of the d’Lucys touching her burned at his gut, and the only one thing keeping him sane enough to follow through with this pretense was the thought that neither Graeham nor Blaec was long for this world. And by the eyes of Lucifer, the very thought of their deaths made up for so much.



It was nearly daybreak when the brothers returned. Graeham, weary as he was, made his way to the chapel. As far as Blaec was concerned, the one in need of prayer was not his brother, but William Beauchamp, for if he encountered the fiend just now, he thought he might send him straight to hell, where he belonged.

Fury alone gave him the strength to mount the steps to his bedchamber. Soiled and sweat-soaked from the night’s ordeal, he cursed beneath his breath, for at the moment, he felt acutely the weight of his mail.

The fire had been contained, but it had taken all of the night to put out the flames and to salvage what they could of the villein’s huts. While there had been few casualties, so many had been left without homes that he and Graeham had felt it their responsibility to remain with them throughout the night, offering what protection and aid they could while the folk rallied their kin and attempted to save their belongings.

Although their protection had been unnecessary, for the craven bastards who had set the fires had slipped away, into the night woods, without leaving so much as a clue as to their identity. Nor had they returned. No matter. Blaec had no need for evidence when his intuition told him exactly who it was who had sabotaged them. Beauchamp. The very name made the hairs at the back of his nape stand on end. And all the while, the bastard slept peacefully under Drakewich’s roof. If Blaec could so much as prove his guilt... he would carve the heart from his body and feed it to the buzzards.

Blind with rage, he didn’t bother to knock as he entered the antechamber, though once he set foot within, he wished he’d given warning. The maid, Alyss, though alone in her bed, lay replete and without blankets to conceal her. Her gown had been rent down the front, fully exposing her plentiful bosom, and from the looks of them, bruised and swollen, she’d been well used the night before. Likely by Beauchamp himself, for Blaec was certain none of his own men would dare leave her so damaged. Every one of them understood that the Beauchamps—useless as they were—were under his protection. And that included their servants. Damn Beauchamp, he thought sourly. The bastard seemed to be making himself at home, even while he wreaked havoc outside these walls.

The maid didn’t stir even as he closed the door, and he scowled, averting his eyes to give her what privacy he could. He didn’t delay, but went straight through to his own chamber, once again opening the door to find a sleeping form. This time within his own bed.

He wasn’t prepared for the sight of her, lying so serenely atop his tumbled sheets and blankets. It sent a charge through him the likes of which he’d never experienced in his life. He endeavored to ignore her, turning askance from the bed and going to the window. The shutters had been left wide open—no doubt so she could watch her brother’s handiwork, he reminded himself bitterly. He closed them, only to turn and find her stretching like a cat in her sleep. Against his will, he could feel the blood slithering into his nether regions, hot and rousing.

She moaned softly, and he couldn’t help but consider the sounds she would make during lovemaking. Would she be seductively quiet but violent in her passion? Or would she be sensual and vocal, telling him with her soft sounds and provocative gestures precisely what it was she wanted from him?

The merest notion sent white-hot lust exploding through his veins, burning hotter than the torrent he’d only just fought. Only this one was far more dangerous, and he mentally thrust the images from his mind.

Christ! He had no right to these thoughts—nor should he have come here, he acknowledged. He should have sent a servant for his garments, instead. Still, he was here now and he couldn’t help himself; he went to the bed and stood staring down upon her.

Dressed in soft, white pleated cambric, she looked every bit the virginal bride that her brother claimed her to be. And her hair... while it had burned copper beneath the late day sun, it now appeared dark and rich in the twilight and held a healthful gleam that was evident even in her skin. Even her brows—dark and perfectly arched—were a work of artistry against her creamy flesh.

It was no wonder William had waited so long to offer her in wedlock, for with her brand of beauty, she was as great a prize as Jerusalem itself. No doubt it behooved William to hold back for the best contract, for age, as with fine wine, could only make her more valuable a prize. She had that look about her. And balls of the saints! Anticipation of the marriage bed alone could unman even the best of men.

Then again... he was not the best of men... and he wasn’t foolish enough to pretend it A muscle ticked at his jaw as he watched her.

Unbinding the laces that secured the ventail, he let the partial mask slip from his face and then he shoved the mail coif back from his sweat-dampened hair.

According to his father, he was naught but a bastard. And if he’d thought himself free from envy and bitterness, he knew now it was not true, for as he stood staring down at the woman within his bed, the mere thought of his brother touching her, loving her, filled him with a greater wrath, even, then that he’d experienced at seeing the huts afire this eve.

Disgusted with himself, he turned from the bed and went to his coffers, opening the largest and removing from it a black tunic and breeches. God’s truth, but he was in need of a bath to set him rights—to cool his ardor. And that was precisely what he intended to do—the sooner he left this God-forsaken chamber, the better.