A Knight's Reward Read online

  Ewan rolled his eyes. “Remember, naught about them kissing.”

  “All right,” Dominic agreed. “However, they lived long, happy lives together. Never again were they threatened by dragons.”

  “I liked that story,” Ewan said. “Did you, Mama?”

  Gisela set aside her chicken, unable to stop the cold tremor rippling through her. “Aye, Button. ’Twas an imaginative tale.”

  She doubted a woman could single-handedly slay a fire-breathing dragon. As, despite how she loathed Ryle, she doubted she had the physical strength to defeat him.

  “Imaginative, true,” Dominic said quietly, “but ’tis astonishing what one can accomplish, when one’s desires are strong enough.”

  “Like me, eating two pieces of chicken!” Ewan piped up.

  Gisela raised her lashes to meet Dominic’s gaze. How intently he studied her. A smile touched his lips. Did he smile because he thought she resembled the Gisela in his story—because he believed he knew what she had endured? Did he want her to confront her dragon like the woman in his tale?

  Dominic couldn’t know what she’d suffered at Ryle’s hand, and the very real danger he still posed to all of them. Not unless she told Dominic, or showed him her damaged breast.

  Oh, God, she couldn’t bear for him to see her scar and recoil in revulsion. Not only was she as common as a roadside daisy, but disfigured. Even less worthy of him than years ago.

  A wave of anguish snatched her breath away. The intimacy of her small, dingy home became a weight pressing down upon her. Rising from the bench, she said, “I must make certain I locked up my shop. I will be back in a moment.”

  “Do you have any more stories?” Ewan asked Dominic, stuffing yet another date into his mouth.

  Gisela stepped into her premises, leaving the door ajar to let in light. While Dominic and Ewan’s voices carried from inside her home, she drew a slow breath and crossed to her worktable. She pressed her fingers into the gown’s coarse wool. With each finished project, she brought her and her son closer to their new life.

  To freedom.

  Her hair tumbled forward as she bowed her head and slowly rolled her shoulders to ease her tension. Once she completed Crenardieu’s commission, she’d have enough money to take her little boy far away from Clovebury. The realization held much less pleasure than days ago.

  The thought of leaving Dominic behind, of never seeing him again, hurt so very, very much. Worse than the memory of Ryle cutting her.

  Yet, what other choice did she have?

  None.

  Staring down at her fingers, she swallowed, her throat painfully tight. She had to forget Dominic . . . because she’d loved him years ago.

  And, God help her, she still loved him.

  “Do not lie to me, Gisela. You still love Dominic, aye?” Ryle sneered, crouched naked on their bed, his hand closed around her neck and pinning her down on the pillow. His face glistened with sweat. “You want Dominic in this bed, not me. You dream of him, not me. Your body aches for him, not me.”

  “Ryle,” she gasped. “You . . . are hurting . . . me.”

  His lips curled. He snatched her fluttering hand from the bedding and shoved it between his legs. Her fingers connected with soft, flaccid flesh. So very different from Dominic’s manhood.

  Tears scalded her eyes. She writhed, desperate to break free.

  Ryle’s mouth contorted on an oath. His fingertips dug into her neck, punishing her.

  “Please—” she croaked.

  Again, he pushed her hand to his groin. “This is because of your treachery. Your fault. Yours! I swear to you, Gisela, if I ever see Dominic, I will kill him!”

  With a strangled cry, she broke from the horrible memory. She straightened, sucking in a ragged breath, her whole body shaking. Still, she could feel Ryle’s fingers biting into her flesh.

  Uncurling her hands from the gown on the table, Gisela massaged her neck, eager to erase the awful sensation. How she despised the power Ryle held over her. Would she ever be truly free of him?

  Aye. She would.

  Drawing in slow, even breaths to regain her calm, she snipped a stray thread from the gown and hung it on the wall peg. She smoothed the fabric’s folds, her hands steadier than before, and smiled, comforted by a sense of pride. While cut from common cloth, the simple, well-made gown would last for years—unlike the frivolous fashions of the courts that changed as oft as the seasons.

  Dominic’s lady wife no doubt had such a wardrobe.

  Anguish crested again. Enough, Gisela. Far wiser to go back inside your home and cherish your remaining moments with Dominic, before you and Ewan travel north.

  Tidying her hair with her fingers, she steeled herself to face Dominic again—aware, suddenly, of the silence in her home.

  She turned. Dominic lounged in the half-open doorway, one shoulder braced against the embrasure, his arms folded across his chest. She knew, even before their gazes met, that he’d thoughtfully studied her for a few, quiet moments. Caught up in her thoughts, she hadn’t heard him approach.

  How mortifying for him to have witnessed her in an unguarded moment. That she might have unwittingly revealed her dangerous secrets.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She managed a cheery smile. “Of course.”

  “You are not saying that to spare my feelings, are you?” He looked faintly sheepish. “If you hated my tale—”

  She shook her head.

  “Ah. You ran away, then, because ’twas too close to the truth.”

  How softly he spoke. However, the hard undercurrent to his words revealed he struggled to control his feelings. The snarled emotions seemed to reach out to her, an echo of the torment churning inside her.

  How her heart ached! “Dominic—”

  “Ewan is fine. He is sitting by the fire with Sir Smug, eating a custard tart.” Dominic pushed away from the doorway, his face taut. “You must know, Gisela, that you can trust me.” He withdrew his necklace from beneath his tunic; he held out the jewelry in one fist. “This must prove how much I cared for you. How I still care.”

  Helplessness coursed through her, as merciless as the pain piercing her soul.

  “Tell me what happened to you. I want to help,” he whispered, his voice raw. “Let me.”

  “Nay.”

  “Why not?”

  She rubbed her quivering lips together. How did she tell him that to spare his life, she must keep her terrible secrets? He wouldn’t understand. “I must go check on Ewan.”

  She tried to slip past Dominic, but his arm snaked out to slide around her waist, drawing her against him. He ensnared her not just by physical contact, but by memories of the joy, pleasure, and sheer freedom of being loved by him. The scent of him, clean and male, tugged at every thread of her restraint.

  His lips brushed her hair. “Tell me,” he pleaded.

  Crushing agony whipped through her. Thrusting up her chin, clinging to her resolve like a broken shield, she met his impassioned gaze. “Because I still care for you,” she said, her voice breaking, “I cannot.”

  He frowned.

  Before he could say a word, she pulled from his hold and hurried into the house.

  ***

  Bowing his head, Dominic muttered an oath. Because I still care for you, I cannot. What, exactly, did Gisela mean by that?

  He plowed both of his hands into his hair, seizing fistfuls of it before tipping his head back to stare at the shadowed ceiling. His palm still burned where it had pressed against her waist, her body as vibrant as sunlight in his embrace.

  A groan broke from him. Wants and needs warred with loyalties to king and lord that had defined his existence from his earliest aspirations of knighthood. With the demons of loneliness and distrust mocking him, his loyalties no longer seemed clear.

  Days ago, he hadn’t hesitated to accept Geoffrey’s order to hunt down the thieves with ruthless perseverance. However, now, he also felt bound to pursue the fear haunting Gisela.
To slay her demons.

  To have her, again, for his own.

  Years ago, he’d fervently believed knighthood, honor, and duty were a warrior’s greatest rewards. How eagerly he’d accepted the challenge of leaving all he knew—and his despicable betrothal—behind to champion his king on eastern battlefields. Is that why Gisela didn’t trust him enough to confide in him, because he’d abandoned her to go on crusade?

  His jaw clenched. Aye, in his choice between true love and duty, he’d chosen duty. The only decision he could have made, with his father and bitch of a stepmother—barely two years older than he—coercing him into marrying a stranger.

  Speak no more of that commoner, Gisela! his sire had raged. She is—and can be—naught to you. You will wed a noblewoman and beget heirs as I expect of my sons. The betrothal is already arranged. Your brother would not have questioned my decision. Neither should you.

  Listen to your father, the sharp-tongued witch had agreed. You are a great disappointment to him, you know—unlike your brother. You never gave your mother one reason to be proud before she died. Surely you will not disappoint your sire, too?

  The memory brought a bitter smile to Dominic’s lips, for after telling them what he thought of them manipulating his life, he’d revealed he had accepted his duty—not to them, but to his king. Like past warriors in the de Terre lineage, he would fight for the crown. Since he might die on crusade, his betrothed would be wise to find herself another husband.

  His father, clearly stunned, couldn’t deny the merit of such a decision. What sire did not want his son to be a battle hero?

  “Eat up that last bit of tart,” Gisela said, her voice drifting into the shop.

  Ewan grumbled. “Mama, my tummy is full.”

  “’Tis only three small bites, Button. Do not waste such a wonderful sweet.”

  Dominic lowered his arms, shaking out the tension locked between his shoulder blades. Gisela’s gentle tone brushed Dominic’s soul like a caress, stirring a deluge of regret. While he’d eagerly anticipated the adventures of crusade and escaping his betrothal, he’d known, when it came to Gisela, his decision would wound him for the rest of his life.

  As much as he’d loved her, he couldn’t ask her to wait for him to return. He might not survive the Eastern battles. He might be so badly injured that even if he did return to England, she’d no longer want him.

  Now they had found each other again, did she fear their love would rekindle tenfold, consuming them both in its intensity? She claimed she had no husband, but the man clearly held sway over her. Did she worry about being unfaithful—and her husband learning of her betrayal?

  Husband. Dominic ground his teeth. What he would give for information on the man who had claimed Gisela for his own.

  Mayhap he should make a few inquiries.

  As he fingered his hair back into place, Ewan came through the doorway to his side. “Why do you not come back into the house?”

  Dominic smiled. “I will, but only for a moment. I must be on my way.”

  Ewan’s expression turned solemn. “Are you angry with Mama?”

  “Nay.” Putting his hand on the little boy’s shoulder, Dominic guided him back into the home. Gisela stood by the trestle table, wrapping up the parcels of food. She didn’t look up, but her tensing posture told Dominic she was aware of his approach.

  Her hair tumbled forward in a shiny, golden swath as she reached for the cloth sack. “There is quite a bit of food left.”

  “’Tis yours,” he said.

  Her head jerked up. Astonishment shone in her eyes, which looked overly moist. “All of it?”

  “Aye.”

  “Oh. I . . . We could not. I mean—”

  He smiled. “You have a growing warrior to feed.”

  She hesitated, then murmured, “Thank you.”

  Dominic fought a tug at his heart. Were those tears in her eyes? Before he could ask, she spun on her heel and carried several packages to the cupboard.

  Ewan pulled at Dominic’s sleeve, claiming his attention. “I want another story. Do you have any more tales about dragons?”

  “Another day, little warrior. I must bid you good night.”

  “Aw!”

  Returning to the table, Gisela said, “I will see you out.”

  Dominic strode through her premises. He waited by the door while she drew the bolts, unlocked the panel, and pulled it open. The evening breeze gusted in.

  How foolish to have forgotten the fine mantle, which matched his tunic, in his room at the tavern. Yet, he was only half-aware of the cool summer night. Gisela stood very close. Directly behind him, one slender hand upon the door’s iron handle, waiting for him to walk away so she could lock up her shop again.

  Ah, God, how acutely he sensed her—her fragrance, her body warmth, and the fear she kept tightly leashed.

  He fought the pressing need to face her. The hope that, before he left, she might change her mind and tell him all. If he turned now, he’d see her robed in soft light and shadow, her lovely features set with familiar, touching stubbornness.

  He’d not be able to leave without kissing her.

  “Good night, Gisela.” Without looking back, Dominic strode into the inky street. A soft “good-bye” followed him before he heard the door shut and the bolts slide into place.

  Darkness swallowed him like the mouth of an enormous beast, concealing all but the areas limned by moonlight. He trudged on through the streets, following the distant shouts, clapping, and rowdy laughter until he came to The Stubborn Mule Tavern.

  He looked forward to a stiff pint of ale.

  As he crossed the dirt yard by the stable, his gaze fell upon the men standing outside the tavern door. Light streamed over the exquisite green cloak of a man turned in profile, handing coins to a smiling, loose-hipped bar wench.

  Crenardieu.

  Dominic smiled. The Frenchman would know as much as anyone about Gisela. Or, should he say, Anne.

  Chapter Eight

  Twirling a daisy between her fingers, Gisela strolled farther into the meadow grasses. Butterflies danced ahead of her, lifting from the wildflowers to form a white veil, drawing her on into the meadow. Bumblebees ambled from bloom to bloom. How good the warm sunlight felt upon her back.

  Someone was watching her.

  Someone close by.

  Unease shivered through her. She turned, tensed, ready to run. A man strode toward her, the long grasses dragging with a soft hiss against his legs. Her pulse quickened.

  At first, she couldn’t make out his features. She barely dared to hope . . . But, as he neared, she knew her heart spoke true.

  Dominic!

  He grinned, so handsome in the brilliant sunshine. She couldn’t resist smiling back. She started toward him, her steps light, joy glowing within her. Drawing near, she threw herself into his arms. He embraced her, pulling her snugly against his broad chest, spinning her around so her feet left the ground. How wondrous it felt to be in his arms.

  “I love you,” he said, kissing her cheek. “I love you, Sweet Daisy.”

  “As I love you.” Tears streamed down her face. “I have missed you.”

  Gently, he set her down. How safe she felt standing in his arms. Cherished. Complete. His gaze heavy with desire, he swept his hands into her hair, holding her head between his palms. Her breath seemed to float up like a butterfly, then suspend, waiting . . .

  He lowered his head, and his lips brushed hers. She should not kiss him. Must not. There was danger in kissing him, no matter how much she wanted to. Her conscience cried a warning. Yet, his delicious touch stole every word of her refusal. He kissed her slowly, deeply, and she couldn’t deny kissing him back. He tasted of sweet promises. Of pleasure. Of love that knew no end.

  He exhaled a ragged breath before urging her down to the ground. Her body draped easily, like tumbled silk, onto the bed of crushed grasses. She ached for his touch, his kiss, the pleasure he’d shown her long ago. Her yearning seared like scorching s
unshine. Oh, how she wanted him.

  He plucked the daisy from her hand. Holding the bloom between his fingers, his trembling hand slid down to her bodice. “Lie with me, Gisela. Be mine. Now. Always.”

  Her skin longed for his touch. However, caution welled, intruding on her anticipation of bliss. “Dominic—”

  “Sweet Daisy.” His hand slid lower, to her cleavage. There, between her breasts, he tucked the flower. Trailing a finger over the upper swell of her bosom, he said, “Tell me what happened to you. Tell me.”

  Hopelessness crushed her rush of pleasure. “Dominic—”

  “Tell me.”

  His hand skimmed down to her right breast. Horror bloomed inside her, as insidious as a weed, choking the last of her joy. She tried to speak, to warn him, but she couldn’t force air into her lungs.

  The fabric of her gown disintegrated, as though burned away by the sun. Her scarred flesh lay bared to him.

  Dominic’s face crumpled with revulsion. He looked at her, his gaze harsh with loathing. He pushed her away.

  With a gasp, Gisela’s eyes flew open. She blinked away the wetness clinging to her eyelashes while she heaved in another breath. Her body shivered through an anguished aftershock.

  As her groggy mind began to clear from the dream, she realized she didn’t lie on her pallet. The scent of silk rose from beneath her and was accented by the acrid tang of candle smoke. Her forehead rested on her curled arm.

  She’d fallen asleep at her sewing table.

  Gisela shoved up to sitting, wincing at the crick in her neck. Sensation returned to her numb arm like hundreds of pins poking into her. She massaged her flesh and stared in dismay at the unfinished gown, creased by her slumber. Thank the saints she had not drooled all over it.

  How could she have fallen asleep? She knew she couldn’t waste one moment finishing Crenardieu’s commission.

  The squeaky rumble of a cart reached her from outside. The townsfolk were beginning their morning routines, which meant she had slept for quite a while.

  “Stupid, stupid!” she muttered, swiping damp hair from her face. When she slid off her work stool, she caught the glisten of wax at the upper corner of her table. Overflowing from the candle holder, the wax formed a milky pool. Moments away from damaging the silk.