A Knight's Reward (17 page)

Her gaze softened. “True.”

“I had to be certain, Gisela,” he said more gently. “I would never forgive myself, Sweet Daisy, if aught terrible happened to you that I could have prevented.”

A heart-wrenching expression shadowed her features. Misgiving? Regret? Mayhap both of these, blended with stubborn resolve. For a moment she looked desperately . . . alone.

Only once before had she looked at him so: that blue-skied summer day he’d said good-bye. He’d embraced her, kissed her with all the love in his soul, and said he’d never forget her. She’d stood in the daisy-strewn meadow, the breeze tangling her hair, her face wet with tears. Still, silent, she’d watched while he turned and strode away.

Dominic hadn’t looked back—even when her sobs had threatened to bring him falling to his knees. He couldn’t bear for her to see him weep or sense the pain splintering his soul. For all the joy she’d given him, he had let her go, to find another man and fall in love again. He could promise her naught when leaving on crusade. She deserved a good marriage. To be happy. Cherished.

The anguish of their parting cut through him again. He longed to slide his arms around her, to draw her close, to comfort her with the warmth of their touching bodies. How alive he’d felt when they embraced.

Would she let him hold her? Just this once? “Gisela . . .”

Her name broke from him in a rough plea. She drew a shaky breath, as though the emotion in his voice grazed a wound inside her.

Shaking her head, she stepped away. Again, she wore her invisible shield, enforcing an emotional wall between them. “Please, Dominic. I did not lie when I said I had much work to do.” She gestured to her worktable. “The blacksmith’s wife liked her gown so much, she asked me to sew her a new chemise.”

He nodded, trying hard to dismiss his disappointment. His gaze slid to the chemise, awaiting her skilled attentions. As much as he yearned to touch, taste, and feel her again, he must respect their lives were very different. Very . . . separate. They both had commitments other than the love they’d once shared.

“I will return later, as you suggested.”

“Ewan is with Ada today. He would like to see you, as well. If you return by early evening, we can eat together.”

“I would like that.” He winked. “I shall have to remember more stories about dragons.”

A smile touched her mouth. “Until this evening, then.” While she spoke, she turned to face the open doorway, encouraging him, with her body language, to leave.

“Until this evening.”

***

Gisela pushed the door closed, secured it, and leaned her brow against the wood. A tremor jarred through her. How close Dominic had come to discovering her deception. She’d managed to stow the silk in the hidden cavity and replace the panels, but only just.

She stared down at her feet peeping out from her gown’s hem. There, by her right shoe, lit by the sunlight fingering in through a crack in the wall, lay a strand of blue thread.

She squeezed her eyes shut. If Dominic had seen it . . .

But, he hadn’t. She would finish the gown and cloak as Crenardieu demanded. If—and only if—Dominic discovered her duplicity, she and Ewan would be long gone from Clovebury.

I would never forgive myself, Sweet Daisy, if aught terrible happened to you that I could have prevented
.

Each of her steps leaden with guilt, she walked back to the worktable. Dominic had spoken with such sincerity. For one, fleeting moment, his words had melted through her fear.

How she wished she could confide in him, especially after Crenardieu’s threat to betray her to Ryle. Could Dominic help her—more importantly, help Ewan—escape the danger hovering over them like a dragon poised to attack? Could she possibly barter with Dominic, exchanging what she knew about Crenardieu and the stolen cloth for her and Ewan’s safe passage out of Clovebury?

Or, if she told, would the truth shatter all? Dominic’s revulsion, straight from her nightmare, filled her mind. He’d despise her for not being honest when he first told her about his mission in Clovebury. Furious, he might arrest her. He would take Ewan away.

Oh, God, she could not bear to be separated from her son!

Fear became a brutal knot against her breastbone. Without her protecting Ewan, every moment of every day, Ryle would find a way to get to him. Her charming, clever former husband would manipulate his way into Dominic’s circle of acquaintances. Ryle would murder Ewan. And then, Dominic.

She couldn’t let that happen.

With stiff hands, she whisked the chemise from the table. After hanging it back on the wall peg, Gisela crouched, raised the loose planks, and withdrew the silk gown. It shimmered in her hands, taunting her with its exquisite beauty.

When she laid the gown on the table, the fabric rustled. It sounded like rain falling on a spring afternoon.

One day, soon, she’d feel rain on her uncovered hair. Wipe it from her upturned face. See it sparkle on Ewan’s eyelashes.

A smile touched her lips as she shifted the gown.

Freedom
, the sound whispered.
Freedom
.

***

After Gisela’s shop door closed behind him, Dominic stopped in the street. A relief, that she was hale, and he had no cause to worry. He looked forward to sharing a meal with her and Ewan later.

Still, he couldn’t dismiss the unease chewing at him like a mischievous hound.

Something was wrong.

He sensed it as acutely as the dust rising from the road in a hazy cloud.

Massaging his right shoulder, he tried to ease his aching, fatigued muscles. His suspicion could well be the result of being overtired from his night at the tavern. Fatigue had the power to influence one’s judgment. While Gisela had seemed uncomfortable at times during their meeting, he’d seen naught in her shop to justify his anxiety.

Yet, . . .

A peddler, leading two heavily laden horses, ambled past. Farther down the street, two women strolled along, heads bent together, caught up in their private conversation. A group of men crouched beside a cart with a broken wheel, clearly trying to decide how best to repair it.

He glanced back at the men. His gaze fixed on the dark-haired, broad-shouldered one standing behind the wagon. The lout faced the street, his face partly covered by a floppy leather hat.

A chill coursed through Dominic.

The man was one of Crenardieu’s lackeys. He’d hovered close by the Frenchman at the tavern. Where he stood, the man had a clear view of Gisela’s shopfront. No one could come or go without him noticing.

Gisela was being watched.

Or, was Dominic the target of Crenardieu’s spying?

The chill inside Dominic transformed to burning anger. No one had followed him that morning. Regardless how addled he’d been, he was certain of it.

Why, then, would Crenardieu send a man to spy on Gisela? He’d not waste his hired thugs unless she was important to him somehow.

How? And why?

A silent growl rumbled in Dominic’s chest. He would find out.

The man looked up, squinting toward Gisela’s shop. Straightening his tunic, Dominic acted as if he was merely casting a casual glance down the street. He must be very careful. Whatever he did, he mustn’t endanger Gisela.

Fighting the impulse to lunge at the man, Dominic sauntered past him and down the street. Balling his hands into fists, he focused on the
crunch
of dirt beneath his boots.

Mutters erupted from the group of men. Moments later, an answering
crunch
sounded behind Dominic.

As he’d hoped.

A grim smile curved his mouth. He walked on. The footfalls continued.

Ahead, an alley veered off the street. Dominic turned into it. A mound of wooden crates stood stacked against the side of a building.

Perfect
.

Darting forward, he crouched beside the crates and pressed his back to the stone wall. The cold seeped into his clothing and bandages.

Footsteps sounded in the mouth of the alley.

“
Merde
,” the man said softly, then started in.

Five strides
, Dominic counted.
Six. Seven
. . .

The lackey’s shadow fell upon him. Dominic leapt to his feet and threw his weight against the man. The lout’s hat fell off as they crashed together into the opposite wall. Dominic gritted his teeth against the pain jarring through his ribs.

“What—” the thug spluttered.

Dominic shoved his arm against the man’s throat. Glaring into the lout’s eyes, Dominic said, “Now, you and I will talk.”

Chapter Ten

Crenardieu’s thug choked out a curse, spittle glistening at the corner of his mouth. He struggled in Dominic’s hold while his fingers clawed into Dominic’s tunic.

The oaf had the strength of a mad bull. ’Twould be difficult to keep him restrained for long.

Dominic blocked a kick. He snarled in the man’s face. “Why are you following me?”

The lout’s gaze narrowed. Jerking his head to one side, he wrenched sideways. Dominic knew that trick well. He’d used it himself a few times—especially in the dark streets of Venice—to escape unwelcome confrontations with thugs.

Dominic pressed his arm tighter against the man’s Adam’s apple. The lackey stiffened. Eyes wide, he flattened back against the rough stone. He swallowed, and his throat moved against Dominic’s sleeve.

“Answer me,” Dominic said between his teeth. “Why are you following me? Why are you spying on G—”—he remembered at the last moment—”Anne?”

The man’s harsh breath fanned across Dominic’s cheek. The barest glint of acquiescence shone in his eyes, before he pressed his lips together.

He spat in Dominic’s face.

The spittle landed on Dominic’s nose. “Tsk-tsk. Not very nice.” Ignoring the cooling wetness on his skin, he leaned harder against the man’s throat. “Now, I ask you again—”

Stones skittered to Dominic’s right. The thug’s gaze shifted in that direction, and Dominic risked a glance. The lout’s friends might have come to his rescue.

A little peasant boy ambled into the alley after a ball. The toy bounced off the wall and rolled toward the crates. His gaze on his prize, the grubby-faced child toddled closer.

Dominic clenched his jaw.

The thug twisted. Dominic sensed the man reaching for his belt. No doubt, to draw a knife.

God’s blood
.

The boy suddenly seemed to realize he was not alone in the alley. Eyes huge, he looked up. He stumbled to a halt. His face paled.

A woman’s voice carried from the street. “Pip? Where did ye go?”

Concern sharpened her words. How easily Dominic imagined Gisela in such a situation, calling for Ewan who had disappeared from view. Dominic’s mouth flattened. He was not a parent, but no man could be immune to a mother’s worried voice. Peasant or lady, when they feared for their children, all women were equals.

Dominic glared back at the lout. Smug triumph glinted now in the man’s eyes. A warning cry seared through Dominic’s anger-hazed mind. The thug intended to draw blood. Despite the child standing so near. Despite possible risk of injuring the boy.

“Run away, son!” Dominic shouted to him. “Go!”

“Mama,” the child whined. His eyes welled with tears as he glanced from the men to the ball lying close to Dominic’s boots. His dirty face clouded with indecision. He seemed torn between what was wise and what he wanted.

“God’s teeth,” Dominic muttered. He’d never forgive himself if the boy got hurt.

Geoffrey wouldn’t forgive him, either.

Swallowing bitter disappointment, Dominic stepped away from the lackey, just as the blade of a knife glinted in the man’s hand. Dominic darted back, his boot heel thudding against one of the broken crates.

“Pip?” A woman stepped into the alley. Her gasp echoed. “Oh!”

Spinning on his heel, the thug faced her. Then, he shoved the blade into his belt and sprinted past.

“Mama.” The boy rushed toward his mother. Wailing at an earsplitting volume, he buried his face in her patched skirts.

Dominic dragged a hand over his face, wiping away the oaf’s spittle. His emotions were wound so tight, he felt like yelling, too. That release of pent-up emotion would be most welcome.

However, he’d have another opportunity with that lout. He would make certain.

Dominic stooped and picked up the ball. The woman had swept her son up into her arms. Cooing to him, she hurried back to the street. Safe in the sunlight and crowds, she stopped and hugged the little boy tight.

Dominic approached her. “I believe this belongs to your son.” He held out the toy.

Bewilderment registered on the woman’s face, weathered from long days toiling outdoors. “Milord.” She tried to drop into a curtsy, but he waved a hand. With a shy nod, she took the ball. “Thank ye.”

Turning his face out of his mother’s skirts, the boy beamed.

Dominic smiled back. He could not help it. The child’s delighted grin was immensely . . . gratifying.

One day, his own son would look upon him so.

He shook aside the peculiar thought. Such notions held no purpose when he had a great deal to do—above all, send a missive reporting his progress to Geoffrey.

Nodding to mother and child, Dominic spun on his heel and strode away.

***

Smoothing a hand over her gown, Gisela opened her shop door. A gust of late afternoon air swept in, swirling over the freshly swept planks. She inhaled a slow breath, savoring the smells of the living town. How she’d hated spending her day shut inside, cloistered to the outside world, enslaved to her commission for Crenardieu.

Soon, she would no longer be forced to any man’s will.

She cast a careful glance about her premises. Twice she’d swept the floor to be sure no threads remained. She had even moved the table and wooden stool, to be extra certain. Dominic would discover naught out of the ordinary.

He will never know I lied to him about the silk
, she reminded herself.
However, he will know the truth about Ewan. That, I cannot keep a secret from him
.