A Knight's Reward (2 page)

Gisela!

The walking stick slid from his hand and clattered on the ground. Before he could caution himself, Dominic broke into a run. The heavy mantle dragged against his legs, and he stumbled twice before regaining his balance. Clenching his fist into the coarse fabric, he yanked up one corner of his garment’s hem.

Several men gathered around the dancing bears turned to glance at him in surprise. With a pinch of dismay, he recognized them from earlier in the morning, when he’d convinced them he was a crippled old vagrant.

He reached the entrance to the alleyway where Gisela had gone. Yards down the narrow, rubbish-strewn alley, he caught sight of a figure in brown. Her hair was again concealed by the hood, which she held in place with one hand while she ran.

“Gisela!” he called. She didn’t stop, glance over her shoulder, or give any indication she’d heard him.

He sprinted into the alley. Rotting cabbages and onions littered the ground. Flies buzzed in a black, swirling cloud. Muttering an oath and batting away flies, he skidded through a slick mass of vegetables. The stench flooded his nostrils. Coughing, he covered his face with his grubby sleeve.

Halfway down the alley, he paused. The cacophony of market day carried from the other street, while in contrast, the alley seemed intensely silent. Glancing to and fro, he searched for Gisela.

A sense of urgency burned in his gut. He
had
to find her. After all this time—

A scrawny gray cat scampered over a nearby pile of broken wooden crates. One of the wooden slats shifted, then fell to the dirt. With a yowl, the feline bounded away. It disappeared down another alleyway, farther ahead.

Holding up his mantle again, Dominic followed.

The side street led into the backyard of The Stubborn Mule Tavern. A wide dirt space—enough to turn a horse-drawn wagon—fronted the two-story, wattle and daub building with a sagging thatch roof. Glancing to his left, Dominic noted the stable’s low roof also bowed in the middle, damage likely caused by heavy spring rains.

He pushed aside the mantle’s hood, gasping for cool air. Wiping his brow, he scrutinized the tavern yard. His sense of urgency deepened. Could she have fled into the tavern? Not a safe place for a young woman alone, but most of the townsfolk seemed to be at the market—meaning there would be fewer drunkards inside to harass her. From her brisk run, she’d seemed desperate at all costs to elude him.

Odd, her desperation. Why did she try so hard to evade him?

Had she stolen something from one of the stalls? Surely not. The Gisela he’d known had a soul as pure as unblemished snow, but then again, he’d not seen her for years.

Did she recognize his voice, but not want to speak with him ever again? Aye, that could be the crux of it. As he dried his dirty palms on his mantle, regret burrowed deeper, for their parting had been very painful. At that difficult point in his life, he’d had no choice but to leave England and join King Richard’s crusade. As much as he’d loved her, he couldn’t have married her. As she’d well known.

Shrugging aside his misgivings, Dominic started toward the tavern. A small, round object lying on the ground a few yards from the stable caught his gaze. He crossed to it before dropping to one knee in the dirt. With careful fingers, he picked up the object.

A broken currant cake.

The baker had handed Gisela one of the sweets.

Pushing to his feet, Dominic looked toward the stable doorway. Grayed shadows marked the entrance, concealing the interior. She could be hiding inside.

He shifted the remains of the little cake in his palm, and it disintegrated. Crumbs slipped between his fingers, like rough-grained sand. Like the years that had passed and changed them both.

He tossed the crumbs in the direction of a starling, watching bright-eyed from the tavern roof. The inevitable choice loomed before him—to step into the stable and face Gisela, or turn around and stride away, leaving the past behind him.

Years ago, he’d walked away. Every night since then, Gisela had been with him, smiling up at him while she lay in the lush meadow grass, her hair spread around her like golden fire. A bracelet of daisies dangled from her wrist as she trailed slender fingers down his cheek, over his lips, down to the front of his tunic.

God’s blood, he could not walk away now.

Dragging a hand over his jaw, he exhaled a ragged breath, and then strode toward the stable.

***

Gisela flattened against the stable’s far wall. Sunlight poked through cracks in the worn wood, slashing lines across the mounded hay in the center of the room, the implements hung on the opposite wall, the empty water trough nearby. Farther in the stable, a horse snorted, then pawed its stall.

Faint, gritty boot falls reached her, the sound of her pursuer running into the tavern yard, then coming to a halt. Hardly daring to breathe, she imagined him studying the quiet, empty yard, his face crumpled with defeat. She prayed he wouldn’t think to check the stable. That any moment, she’d hear him curse, spin on his heel, and stride away.

More crunched footfalls. Coming closer, not receding.

A pause.

Oh, God
.

The moment of silence stretched, poignant and insidious. Her pulse thundered, as loud as a musician hammering on a tabor. She bit down on her bottom lip, even as a violent shiver tore through her. The sticky residue from the currant cake burned her palm like a brand, for in her frantic dash to the stable, she’d dropped Ewan’s treat. Where, she could not remember.

Mayhap her pursuer would not find it, she quickly reassured herself. By now, a hungry mongrel had probably eaten it.

Her watcher might not even have seen the baker hand it to her, and therefore, even if he did find the cake, it would have no significance.

None.

Yet, the doubt settled deeper—like months of dust, stirred up by a cloud of ill wind, floating down to collect again in a stifling blanket.

The memory of Ryle’s reddened face, twisted into that terrible sneer, again wrestled its way into her thoughts. That evening, he’d been angrier—and more drunk—than she’d ever seen him. Thank the saints, sleeping Ewan, tucked away in his chamber at the other end of the manor house, hadn’t witnessed the violence.

She could only imagine Ryle’s wrath when she was returned to him.

Oh, God. Oh, God!

Her legs shook. She pressed her back against the rough wooden wall, into the darkest shadows. With only one route in or out of the stable, she must force herself to be patient, to be as still and silent as a tomb sculpture. Despite the smell of hay tickling her nostrils.

Despite the splinter biting into her right palm.

Despite—

Just as she covered her nose to stop a sneeze, the light in the stable’s doorway dimmed. The muted thud of footfalls reached her.

Her pursuer had stepped inside.

Tension hummed inside her with the resonance of a single, plucked harp string. The air inside the stable changed. Shifted.

She sensed his presence. Determined. Inquisitive.

Familiar, somehow.

Confusion flared, and she fought the terrified moan rising up inside her. She squeezed farther against the wall. Her hand moved sideways a fraction and bumped against a wooden-handled spade. With a loud rasp, the implement keeled sideways, then clanged onto the floor.

Oh, God!

“Gisela?”

The man’s rich, warm voice reached out to her, without a hint of menace. Disbelief shot through her. He sounded just like Dominic.

Memories of her beloved softened the edges of her fear, reviving moments of sunshine, laughter, and love so strong and true. She had known, when she’d kissed him full on the lips for the last time, that she’d never love another man as she had treasured him.

She blinked, fighting tears. Of all wondrous miracles, could it be him?

Cruel reality smashed her elation like a beetle beneath a stone. How foolish, to imagine the man was Dominic. He’d gone away on crusade. He’d likely perished on the bloody eastern sands, run through by a Saracen sword. Even if he’d survived the battles, the journey back to England on a filthy, rat-infested boat surely would have killed him.

Nay, the man could not be Dominic.

Fear was corrupting her mind.

Yet, how did he know her given name? Not the name she used here in Clovebury, but her
real
name?

“Gisela, are you in here?” The man spoke again. His tone held an edge of frustration.

Oh, heavenly Mother of God. If she heard only his voice, she’d believe him to be Dominic.

Loneliness coaxed her to stumble out of the shadows and look upon him.
Oh, my love. Is it you?
Biting down on her tongue, she fought the urge to call out. Curling her hands against the rough wall, she struggled not to rush forward.

’Twas not Dominic, she reminded herself. ’Twas a stranger, who was likely working for her husband.

Straw rustled. The shadows shifted as the man walked farther into the stable.

“Why do you not answer me, Gisela? Are you hurt?”

Any moment, he’d round the bales of hay. He would see her. Expectation warred with a rising sense of panic. Caution had protected her and Ewan over the past four months; to foolishly risk them both now was unforgivable.

Her gaze darted to the opposite wall, searching for a hiding place.

Nowhere to conceal herself.

Yanking the bread loaf from under her arm, she tossed it onto a wooden grain barrel. Lunging forward, she picked up the spade.

A man stepped into view. The loose, ragged garments of the peddler hung from his broad frame. With only a few paces between them, and him standing upright rather than hunched over a stick, he looked far taller than she expected.

A warrior in a peddler’s garb.

Facing him, she half-crouched, holding the spade like a pike between them.

He abruptly halted, respecting the barrier she enforced between them. He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, while a wry laugh broke from him. “’Tis not the greeting I expected. At least you were kind enough not to crack me over the head.”

Her gaze sharpened on his face. Brown hair tangled about his shoulders, framing a handsome visage. In the shadows, she couldn’t make out the color of his eyes, but they danced with undisguised mirth.

His face looked tanned, more angular, but his eyes were the same.

Oh, God!

Dominic!

Her arms trembled with the weight of the spade. It wavered, sending the metal end listing down toward the straw-littered floor. As though sensing her astonishment, he said, “Gisela, I have not come to harm you. ’Tis me, Dominic.”

Stinging tears flooded her eyes. Her throat ached, as though she had swallowed a mouthful of dry straw. How she longed to drop the spade and throw herself into his arms. The compulsion to go to him burned with such force, it robbed her of breath.

However, she could never forget her husband’s merciless vow.
You can trust no one, Gisela. Do you hear me? No one! This I promise you.

Ryle knew how much she’d loved Dominic; drunk and furious, he’d cursed that love time and again. Circumstances had left her no choice but to tell Ryle of Dominic, a wealthy lord’s youngest son, whom she’d cherished and lost. If, after his return to England, Dominic had located her husband and asked to see her, Ryle had the gift of manipulation to convince any man to do his bidding. A treachery she added to all the others for which she despised him.

Knowing Ryle, he’d fabricated a clever lie to explain why she’d left him. He’d have stitched enough concern for her into his tale to convince Dominic he must find her—and bring her back.

The anguish of her thoughts struck her like a fist.
Oh, Dominic, how desperately I have missed you. Every day, since you left me, I have wept inside. To see you here is my most cherished dream come true
.

Yet, the cautious little voice inside her repeated Ryle’s threat.
You can trust no one, Gisela. No one!

Dominic’s smile had faded. Now, his expression held a tormented blend of surprise and regret.

Misery weighed upon Gisela. How she loathed what she must do. But, she had no choice. Protecting herself, and especially Ewan, was more important than her fondest wishes.

Forcing the lie through her stiff lips, she said, “You have mistaken me for someone else.”

He frowned. “Nay.”

The falsehoods snarled together in her mouth like tangled thread. Still, she managed to say, “My name is not Gisela. ’Tis Anne.”

Shock widened his eyes. He shook his head, clearly grappling with her words. “’Tis Gisela. I make no mistake.” The barest smile touched his lips. “I would never forget you.”

A treacherous, pleasured warmth bloomed inside her. Oh, what wondrous words.

How very clever of him, if he aimed to undermine her wariness.

“My name is Anne.”

“Anne is your middle name. ’Tis also your mother’s name.” He crossed his arms, then leaned one broad shoulder against the stable wall, a posture that implied a lazy ease, though she well knew she couldn’t run past him to the door. “I remember the day you told me,” he murmured. “We lay in the meadow, with the buttercups and daisies. You made me say it over and over—
Gisela Anne, Gisela Anne
—so I would not forget. Do you remember?”

Aye, I remember
. A sob rose in her throat.

From somewhere outside came men’s voices. They drew near.

Dominic’s jaw hardened before he pushed away from the wall.

Fear jolted through her. The men approaching might be his cohorts who had followed his pursuit. Reinforcements, to help take her away, if she put up a fight.

Her shaking arms failed her. The metal spade hit the floor with a loud
clunk
.

“Gisela.” Dominic moved a measured step closer. “I do not understand. I thought you would be glad to see me. Why are you so afraid?”

She stumbled back. Her foot knocked the fallen implement, and she winced. “Oh, Dominic,” she whispered, all of her anguish bleeding into her voice. “Please. Turn around and leave. Pretend you never saw me.”