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
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
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