A Knight's Reward (22 page)

“
What
, Gisela?”

“You never wished to see me again.”

He dragged a hand through his hair. “God’s blood! Never did I say—”

“If you returned from crusade, you would marry a lady of your own noble class. Not a common little whore like me.” A sob tore up from her.

“Gisela!” Anguish etched Dominic’s features. “I am sorry.”

“I left knowing our love had truly ended,” she said, trailing a hand over her belly. “That all I had left of you—of
us
—was our child. A babe I wanted very much.”

A sigh broke from Dominic, a sound akin to the willow leaves stirring overhead.

“When my parents learned I was with child,” she went on, “they were shocked. My family was well known in the county. They had hoped to marry me to one of their wealthy clients and thereby expand my father’s influence in the cloth trade. No man would want me pregnant with another’s babe.”

“Your dragon of a husband married you.”

“Ryle was an associate of my father’s and many years older than I,” Gisela bit out, unable to tamp down her loathing. “He had no children. His previous wife had died. He offered to accept my babe as his own, in exchange for my help running his business. My father had taught me to manage the accounts. Ryle wished me to do the same for him.”

Dominic stood silent for a long moment, a tall, brooding presence in the darkening shadows. The wind, whispering through the leaves again, sounded like the hushed gossip of finger-pointing old crones. “I had no choice, Dominic,” she said, speaking the words she had silently told herself a hundred times over. “My parents wanted to avoid a scandal. To leave and try to begin a trade on my own, with no money and a babe to feed and clothe, was foolish. Ryle was a rich merchant. He promised to care for me and my child.”

“I understand, Gisela.” Dominic’s voice sounded flat and as emotionless as a barren winter day.

“Really?” she whispered, the torment of her choices turning her voice to pure pain. “I felt naught for him. He was a stranger to me in all ways. I stood beside him during our nuptials, but felt only . . . emptiness.”
Because I loved you. Every part of me longed to be with you
.

“’Twas not so unpleasant the first few months,” she went on, “or those after Ewan was born. Ryle traveled a great deal, sometimes to the continent to visit the Fairs of Champagne and purchase cloth, or other parts of England to meet fellow merchants. I looked after his manor home and the accounts, while raising Ewan.”

“An ideal situation, to outsiders.”

Nay, my love, for each day, I craved you. I begged that, by some divine miracle, you would survive the horrors of battle and return to England, to be with me
.

“Ideal until the profits did not match his reckless spending,” Gisela said with a shiver. “When Geoffrey de Lanceau settled at Branton Keep, and his cloth industry thrived, Ryle lost clients. De Lanceau became rich, while Ryle struggled to keep customers.”

“Ah,” Dominic murmured.

“Ryle grew angry. He began to drink, his one goblet of wine in the evening becoming five or six. When I begged him to stop, he hit me, hard enough to send me sprawling on the floor.”

She forced words through chattering teeth. “I told him I would leave. He said if I dared to run away, no matter where I went, he would find me. He would hurt my parents, until they told him where I could be found.”

“Gisela!”

“Then, after raising his fist to hit me again, he wept and apologized. He said he loved me, and promised to be a better man.”

Dominic shook his head.

“I tried to keep him content. I asked the servants to cook his favorite meals. I kept up with the accounts. Then, one evening, I . . . I made a mistake.”

“What do you mean, ‘a mistake’?”

“In the ledger, I . . . incorrectly subtracted a sum. I swear, I did not mean to. Ewan was teething and restless in the nights, and I had not slept well. I miscalculated. Ryle found the mistake. Drunk and angry, he accused me of trying to cheat him. He said I planned to steal the money to run away, to be with another man.”
To be with you, Dominic. Because you gave me your son. Because you loved me in ways Ryle could not
.

“Gisela,’twas not your fault.”

She shrugged off the soothing reassurance of Dominic’s words. “I am to blame. I should have checked my sums.”

“He should never have taken out his anger on you.”

Gisela tried very hard not to cry. How she yearned to accept the concern in Dominic’s gaze, to melt against him. Yet, how could she turn to him when in all likelihood, he would destroy her dream of a new life? As de Lanceau’s spy, Dominic had no choice but to tell his lord what she had done—and see her punished.

“Did Ewan see Ryle attack you?” Dominic asked softly.

“Nay. He was asleep upstairs. Oblivious. For that, I am forever grateful. For him to have witnessed Ryle’s fury . . .” She rubbed her chilled arms, her breast hurting anew with the remembered pain. Again, she smelled wine on Ryle’s breath as he loomed over her, his handsome, sweaty face twisted with malice.

“Speak true, Gisela. You intended to deceive me.” His breath roared from him, as hot as fire, scalding her with the force of his rage. “Admit it!”

“Nay! Ryle, I am sorry,” she cried. “I am sorry.”

She stepped back, anxious to stay out of range of his swinging fist. His lips curled away from his teeth, stained red from his drink. His eyes cinched into slits.

She knew that look. She woke in a cold sweat from dark dreams because of it. Fear turned her innards to water.

“Ryle, I am sorr—”

His hand snapped out. She raised her hands to try to deflect the blow. Stumbled back.

His fist did not strike her.

Instead, his hand locked around her arm. His fingers clamped onto her sleeve, digging into her skin despite the layer of shimmering silk between their flesh.

“Please,” she gasped. If only he had hit her and been done with his cruelty. The gleam in his eyes promised more.

His other hand reached to his belt. His dagger hissed from its scabbard.

She froze. Surely he would not . . . “Ryle—” Her plea sounded like someone else’s voice. A woman consumed by terror.

“You will be sorry,” he said between his teeth. “You will never deceive me again.”

The knife glinted, a silver flash of light that seemed to reflect off every surrounding surface. The light transfixed her, imprisoned her with sheer horror. What did Ryle mean to do? Was he going to kill her?

Run!
her mind screamed.
Get away while you still can.

Even as her mind shrieked, she remained frozen. Frantic thoughts clashed, undermining her instinct to bolt. If she fled, would he come after her? Or, would he storm up the stairs and use the knife on Ewan?

Her breath locked tight in her lungs. Several times, Ryle had vowed to hurt anyone she loved if she ran away. He was cruel enough to wound a sleeping child. Another man’s son.

Sobs welled inside her. With every ounce of willpower, she forced herself to remain motionless. Curling her hands into fists, she watched the knife plunge down in a bright arc.

With a sickening rasp, the blade whisked across her bodice, cutting silk and flesh as though they were soft cheese.

Pain careened into her mind. A crimson stain ribboned across her bodice. Blood, thick and warm, spewed between her breasts, ran down to her stomach, and stuck her delicate chemise to her skin.

She stared down at her blood-soaked gown. A strange sound echoed in the chamber. A gasping, wheezing noise.

The sound of her own breathing.

The agony of her cut flesh . . . Hideous pain! She bit her lip to keep from screaming. Never would she reveal her anguish. Ryle must not have the satisfaction of knowing how much he’d hurt her. Nor would she wake Ewan and have him see her injury.

The suppressed scream scorched her throat. With a trembling hand, she fingered the torn silk. A cut with neat, clean edges, she noted dully. The sign of a deadly sharp knife.

She glanced up, wavering as the room spun at a peculiar angle. Squinting down at her, Ryle met her gaze. The menacing force of his glare commanded her to cower before him, crying, bleeding, and wounded.

Never again would she yield to this beast of a man.
Never!

When she continued to stare, his squint hardened. She dropped her gaze. She did not want to, but to challenge him when he was in such a rage was foolish. Better to use her remaining strength to find a way to defend herself if he attacked again.

There. The flower vase he had bought her as a gift. She would smash it over his head. Somehow, she must reach out and grab it.

Ryle exhaled a rough sigh. The knife winked again. As her arms instinctively flew up in self-defense, the dagger landed with a
thump
on the table beside them. After running a hand through his silvery hair, he reached for his wine.

Relief weakened her legs. They threatened to give out, to send her collapsing on the floor.

Drawn by grim fascination, her gaze slid to the knife. Blood glistened on the blade. Her blood, cleaved from her breast. God, oh, God, how it hurt!

Vomit burned her mouth. The slick, crimson liquid on the knife began to spread, growing like a murky pool across the table. Wider, wider, it grew, covering the table, consuming . . .

“Gisela,” Dominic said from nearby.

The scarlet haze in her mind slowly faded to the mottled green of tree shadows. Dominic’s arms were around her, supporting her, Gisela realized dully. He stood behind her, holding her about the waist, supporting her while . . .

While she moaned like a little girl lost in a nightmare.

“Shh,” he murmured against her hair.

She clamped her lips together, curtailing the last of her desolate cry. The breeze whispered through the leaves overhead, altering the shadows beneath the willow with new patterns of light and dark. Sunshine slipped over the twisted roots plunging like fingers into the soil. Those roots anchored the tree. Sustained it through drought and storms. Grew deeper over time and helped it flourish.

Dominic’s arms tightened about her, reinforcing her with their muscled strength. Another moan, of unbearable longing, bubbled inside her. How wondrous to be pressed against him.

How dangerous, to defy the physical distance between them.

She released her pent-up breath. “W-what did I say?”

“Enough,” he said, his breath a warm gust against her hair.

Anticipation swirled from her nape down to her toes. The breeze whispered again, bringing with it the smells of grasses, loam, and river water, mingled with Dominic’s scent.

Closing her eyes, she savored the forbidden essence of him. His masculine scent personified joy, pleasure, passion . . . all she’d left behind in the meadow the day they parted.

Step away
, reason commanded.
You must. Your emotions are too fragile. Your love for Dominic can never be as it was. Do not torment yourself
. However, before her traitorous body could obey, her head tipped back to nestle between his shoulder and neck.

He drew in a startled breath. Clearly, he hadn’t expected the contact. As he inhaled, his upper chest brushed her back. A low groan burned her throat, for even that touch made her crave him. Tears stung her closed eyes.

Step away, Gisela
.

Before she could break from his embrace, his arms shifted. Instead of easing her away, he tightened his hold. For this one moment, it seemed, he agreed to indulge her, while she gathered her tattered emotions.

A gallant gesture. One true to his noble nature.

Oh, Dominic
. Tears slipped past her lashes.

“Gisela,” he whispered.

Her eyes fluttered open. “Mmm?” How husky her voice sounded.

Turning her face, she glanced up at him . . . to find his mouth a breath away. The slightest nudge forward, and their lips would touch.

The memory of their kiss in her shop swept through her. Her skin tingled, recalling the hungry softness of his mouth, and his groans when the kiss deepened.

How would he taste in this secluded meadow?

As though attuned to her thoughts, his gaze dropped to her lips. Desire sparked beneath the dark sweep of his lashes.

His mouth tightened. Turning his face away, he looked out across the twilight field. “’Twill be dark soon. We must start back to your home.”

***

Dominic strode ahead of Gisela toward the disintegrating Roman wall. His thoughts reeled with the impact of what she’d told him of her husband’s viciousness—and what he’d deduced from her fear-induced near-collapse.

As he walked, he seized a grass head and ripped it from its stem. His warrior instincts roared for retribution. To think of Gisela disfigured, controlled, crushed by a man like Ryle . . . It explained much about the changes in her from years ago and why in desperation she might make wrong choices—among them, lying to him.

Still, he couldn’t deny his anger, almost as fierce as his hunger for her. She’d deliberately withheld information about Geoffrey’s stolen cloth and Ewan’s paternity. What other secrets did she keep? In what other ways would she betray his trust?

Cease, Dominic
, his heart cried.
Left with few choices, she did what she thought best to protect herself and her child.

That much was true. What Ryle had inflicted upon her was unforgivable. Dominic scowled. To think of Ewan, his son, living in the same home as Ryle . . .

Ewan.
His son
.

Bewilderment plowed through Dominic, causing him to almost stumble over his own boots. In all his dalliances with women, he’d never imagined himself a father. Was the boy
really
his son? Had Gisela invented her story about Ryle’s impotence and Dominic being Ewan’s father in hopes of bettering her circumstances with him?