A Knight's Reward Read online

  Filling his lungs with fresh air, he headed into the alley and toward Gisela’s shop, stopping on the way to buy a pastry from a street vendor. He ate while he walked. A good idea, to eat. His belly felt more stable already. The fog cleared from his mind.

  His steps lightened when he entered the street near Gisela’s premises. Anticipation glowed inside him, for soon he’d see her lovely face tinged pink with a blush. The graceful sweep of her hair he longed to touch. The proud, yet beautiful, tilt of her chin.

  Brushing stray crumbs from his tunic, he glanced toward her shop.

  Closed.

  He came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the street, wobbling a moment. A young boy pulling a small cartload of firewood grumbled under his breath and veered past, as did the mongrel at the lad’s heels.

  Misgiving lanced through Dominic, tainting his excitement with a sense of dread. He shrugged the unease away. No doubt there was a reasonable explanation for Gisela’s shop being shut. Mayhap she had gone to meet with a client.

  Mayhap Ewan was ill.

  Mayhap Gisela was unwell. He’d sensed something was amiss last evening. She might not have wanted him to know of her ailment because she realized he would insist on staying to care for her. Thus, he wouldn’t be able to pursue his mission for Geoffrey.

  Dominic sighed. Even after years apart, she knew him well. He would, indeed, have stayed. He’d always loved her stubborn, independent streak, but if he didn’t look after her, who would?

  Even before he willed his body into motion, he was striding toward the building. He fought the urge to slam his shoulder into the door and break it from his hinges. Hardly the way to impress Gisela. Not wise, either, considering his healing ribs. Moreover, the rash act would attract attention from passersby, who would view him as a dragon rather than a protector; he did not care for another round of local justice.

  Curling his hand into a fist, he knocked three times.

  A muffled oath came from within, followed by the scrape of furniture across the floor.

  “Who is there?” Gisela called from inside.

  He smiled, his anticipation burning anew. “Dominic.”

  Another oath. Had she really said “Oh, my God!” with utter horror? She’d speak that way about a poisonous, five-headed snake.

  “I . . . Um . . . Just a moment,” she called.

  He frowned. “Are you well?”

  “Aye!” she said, before he had finished speaking. Through the door, her voice sounded breathless. As though he’d caught her in a clandestine act.

  His frown deepened. Curiosity nagged, turning his excitement into suspicion. He had no right to know . . . but what was she doing in there?

  Pressing his fingers to the rough wooden panel, he tipped his head close to hear. Impossible, with the horse-drawn wagon rattling by.

  He remembered the first time he’d visited her shop, how she’d sat at her sewing table, sunlight illuminating her face, her expression one of intense concentration while she smoothed out the gown. The image distorted. He saw her standing back against the table, hands splayed in crushed fabric while her body arched up to meet her lover’s hungry kiss. As her eyes closed and her head tilted back in rapture, the man pushed down her gown to reveal her breasts’ luscious swell.

  Thumping noises came from inside the shop. Then, more scraping.

  Dominic’s fingers curled against the door. The wood, weathered to a browny-gray hue, mocked him with its solid blankness. He saw no crack, no broken knot, through which he could peer in and see what was transpiring.

  The urge to break down the panel roared again. Nay. She was probably with a female client who needed to try on a garment for fitting. That explained the closed shop and Gisela’s delay in letting him in.

  She would not be with a lover.

  He willed himself to be patient.

  Forget patience!

  He pummeled the door again. “Open up, G— “ Careful, Dominic, you idiot! “Anne.”

  Inside, the bolts on the door slid back. The lock clicked, and the panel creaked open. Gisela leaned into the small space between the door and the embrasure. Wispy hair poked out from her loosened braid. How he longed to tuck those strands back into place. To touch, just for a moment, the silk of her tresses and her cheek’s soft curve.

  A flush stained her face. “Dominic.”

  “Aye.”

  Her slender hand flitted over her bodice, a nervous gesture that encouraged his gaze to skim down to her bosom.

  Relief shivered through him. Her breasts were neatly restrained within her gown. The same one, he remembered, she’d worn yester eve. As he became fully attuned to her presence, he noted shadows under her eyes and the weariness lining her features.

  “You look tired.”

  She straightened, pushing her shoulders back. He tried not to notice the tempting thrust of her bosom. “I am fine.” Arching an eyebrow, she said, “You look like you slept in your clothes.”

  He followed her gaze to his creased tunic. “Actually, I did.” Bestowing upon her his most charming grin, he said, “May I come in? I will tell you of my night drinking at the tavern.”

  Dismay flitted over her face. She blinked and seemed to gather her composure. “I . . . I am sorry, Dominic. ’Tis not convenient. Mayhap you could come back later?”

  Her apology sounded most gracious. Behind her encouraging smile, however, he sensed desperation.

  She wished he would be on his way.

  Why?

  Pretending he had an entire day to dawdle, he shrugged. He toed a stone with his boot. “I did not realize you were with a client.”

  “I am not.”

  “Your shop is shut.” He paused before adding, “I was worried. I thought you or Ewan might be ill.”

  Nodding, she gnawed on her bottom lip. Dominic let the moment drag. Tilting his head to one side, he looked at her, coaxing her to elaborate.

  She averted her gaze. Then, after a long moment, she said, “I needed to catch up on my work today. The noises from the street are a distraction, and—”

  Still talking, she removed her hand from the door to finger aside her hair.

  The perfect opportunity.

  He stepped forward. Shoved the panel. It swung inward, hit the wall, and bounced on its hinges.

  “Dominic!”

  He brushed past Gisela, his gaze scanning the room’s interior. Candles flickered on the worktable. He noted sewing implements scattered on the table’s surface. A half-finished chemise. The wooden stool, pushed to one side.

  Scowling, he spun to glance behind the door. No one else occupied the room. Not even Ewan.

  “All that scraping and thumping . . .” he said under his breath.

  “Why did you barge in?” Gisela demanded behind him. “I told you ’twas not convenient.”

  He turned to meet her flashing blue gaze. She stood with her hands on her hips and her chin thrust forward. She looked so indignant, he almost bent at the waist in a gallant apology.

  “I had to be certain you were not in danger.” Thank God his drink-hazed brain didn’t fail him. “For all I knew, someone stood behind you, threatening your life.”

  “Why would you assume that?”

  Ah. A very good question. The thumping and scraping sounds were likely caused when she moved the wooden stool across the planks. What other explanation could there be for the noises?

  Dominic scrambled for an answer that didn’t make him look a complete fool. “You told me yourself that thugs are preying on shopkeepers in this town. They might have been robbing you of your cloth, and any other items they could sell elsewhere.”

  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 despera
tely . . . 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.