A Knight's Reward Read online

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.

  A hot-cold shiver trailed through her. She crossed the room and, with sweaty hands, placed the broom back in its usual corner. Aye, she would tell Dominic. Today. When they had a quiet moment to talk. She’d come to the decision that afternoon when her only companions were needle and thread. No matter how difficult the truth might be, Dominic deserved to know.

  Guilt gnawed, along with intense anticipation. Was it fair of her to tell him and then vanish? Nay. He would resent her. Mayhap even come to hate her. Gisela’s eyes burned, for the thought of hurting him in such a way made her soul weep.

  You know there is no other choice, Gisela. Not if you want to protect Dominic from Ryle’s viciousness.

  Again, the memory of Ryle’s contorted face barged into her thoughts. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block him out, but his violent roar echoed in her mind, followed by the sharp pain of his dagger piercing her flesh. Shuddering, pressing her hand to her scarred breast, she fought to defeat the memory. Fought, with her strength of will, as she should have fought that evening, if only she hadn’t been so weak.

  Reaching out, she grasped the worktable. Her fingers clutched its solid strength, until the memory dissipated and her shaking subsided.

  She forced up her chin, ignoring the lingering pangs of dread. With freedom so near, she would not be cowed by memories of Ryle. Dominic would arrive soon. She must bolster herself for what she was to tell him. Moreover, she needed to plan what she and Ewan would take when they fled.

  She went through into her home, her gaze straying to the bread, cheese, and bowl of hazelnuts on the table. A simple repast, but ’twould do. With it she would serve the last of the mead she kept in the cupboard. Good to drink it up, since she wouldn’t take it with her and Ewan. They must take only what was light and easy to carry.

  Booted footfalls echoed in the shop. “Hello?”

  Dominic.

  Her pulse began an erratic thunder. “In here.” She crossed to the doorway, drying her suddenly damp hands on her skirt.

  How bold and handsome he looked, poised in the light streaming in from the doorway behind him—as though he commanded the sun. He no longer wore the embroidered tunic, but a simple, well-fitting one the gray of a winter sky. As he neared, her gaze took in his hair’s unruly tousle, the graceful curve of his lips, and the stubborn purpose about him.

  How much he reminded her of Ewan.

  A breath shivered from her, for, as it had that morning, concern glinted in Dominic’s eyes. Gesturing to the street outside, he said, “The door was open.”

  Surprise skittered through her. “I wanted to let in some fresh air.”

  His head dipped in a half nod. “Did you have visitors?”

  “I only finished working a short while ago, and then I opened the door. No one came or went.”

  “Ah.” His gaze skimmed the room, pausing to linger on the chemise hanging on the wall peg. She’d hoped to sew more on it that afternoon, but would have to return to it that evening. If she worked through the night, she could finish it along with Crenardieu’s commission.

  Reaching back, Dominic swung the door closed. It clicked shut, and the room plunged into shadow, lit only by the fading sunlight fingering in through cracks in the walls.

  Gisela frowned. “Why did you shut the panel?”

  His gaze narrowed, but he did not answer.

  “Please open it.”

  “In a moment.” His attention shifted from her to the chemise before he strode to it, his boots loud on the planks. His expression thoughtful, he caught the sleeve in his fingers and examined the unfinished cuff.

  He will notice you have not worked on it today. He will be suspicious, her mind shrilled.

  Alarm shot through Gisela like hot sparks. She must distract him. Quickly!

  “Dominic, what is going on?”

  He hesitated, long enough to send a shiver coursing through her, before he glanced at her. “I might ask you that question.”

  “W-what do you mean?” She tried to sound puzzled, but her words died on her tongue.

  “Your shop is being watched.”

  “What? By w
hom?”

  Ryle. He has found you. He has come to kill you.

  She fought a blinding surge of panic. Nay. Ryle wouldn’t merely watch her; he’d storm in and unleash his temper.

  “Crenardieu’s men,” Dominic said.

  She exhaled on an oath. Crenardieu didn’t trust her, after all. He suspected she might bolt before she finished her commission for him. Did he think she’d steal the silk and sell it?

  Or, did he expect her to betray him to Dominic?

  Resentment welled inside her, so sharp, she almost choked on it.

  Releasing the chemise’s hem, Dominic turned to face her. “Why, I wonder, would Crenardieu guard your shop?”

  “I do not know,” she managed to say. Liar! her conscience screamed. How can you speak falsely to the man you love? The only man you will ever love, until the day you perish?

  A sad, taut smile touched Dominic’s mouth. “I vow you do know, Gisela.”

  A sob lodged in her throat. Aching loneliness filled her soul. She sensed the emotional distance furrowing between her and Dominic, cleaving like an axe through the loving trust that had defined their relationship before.

  Fie! Circumstances were different now. How could she not speak falsely, when her lie would save Dominic from Ryle?

  She crossed her arms and rubbed her sleeves with her hands. “Crenardieu has no reason to distrust me.” That, at least, didn’t further embroider her falsehood.

  “So you say. Yet, from early morning ’til I came in just now, at least two men stood in the street and kept watch on your premises. They pretended to be repairing a broken wagon. I pursued one of them and tried to wrest an explanation from him, but he was not forthcoming. A short while later, he was back in his spot, watching.”

  “Oh, God,” she whispered.

  “Crenardieu would not order his thugs here, Gisela, unless he had reason.”

  She tried to speak, but desperation froze her mind. All the words that might rush to her defense evaporated like dew.

  Dominic’s gaze challenged hers. “From the moment we met, I sensed you withheld something from me. ’Tis more than your running from your husband.”

  A tremor shook her.

  He stepped forward, his fierce strength of will rolling toward her out of the shadows. “Are you indebted to Crenardieu in some way? Is that why he watches you?”

  Trying to swallow down a moan, she shook her head.

  Dominic raked his fingers through his hair. His face contorted as though his next words were unbearably painful. “Are you and he . . .” He clenched his eyes shut before opening them again. “Are you his . . . lover?”

  “Never!”

  “Does he fear my relationship with you, then? That I might take what he believes is his?”

  A frantic laugh bubbled inside her. If only Dominic knew how perfectly his words related to the hidden silks. “Honestly, Dominic, I would rather eat a slug than lie with Crenardieu.”

  A faint smile tilted Dominic’s lips. “Good. Otherwise, I would be very disappointed in you.”

  Gisela smiled back. Warmth spread within her, akin to a flower unfolding and reaching for the sky. How she loved Dominic’s wry humor. How she loved . . . him.

  Tell him now, Gisela. Tell him what he deserves to know. Before you lose your courage. Before Ewan scampers through the doorway.

  Drawing a trembling breath, she said, “Dominic, you were right about a secret. One I have kept from you far too long. I shall deny you the truth no longer.”

  Chapter Eleven

  A sigh broke from Dominic, a sound expressing the relief whooshing through him. At last, Gisela confided in him. ’Twas best she reached this decision on her own, rather than him having to coerce her.

  Letting his hands fall to his sides, he stepped closer. “Thank you, Gisela, for trusting me.”

  She gave a jerky nod, causing her hair to shift about her shoulders. He remembered the brush of her tresses against his hands. The way, years ago, she had looked up at him, her blue eyes shining with limitless love and trust.

  When she looked at him now, he saw wariness in her gaze, as well as haunting shadows of anguish. Whatever she was about to tell him was difficult for her.

  Silence spread through the shop like a thick blanket. “’Tis about Crenardieu,” he gently pressed.

  “Um . . . Nay.”

  He frowned. “What do you mean, nay?”

  Her lashes dropped a fraction, veiling the spark of her eyes. “Crenardieu has no part in what I must . . .”—she shivered and clasped her hands—”what I will tell you.”

  Disbelief weighed like a stone in Dominic’s gut. He’d been so sure about her revelation. His gut instinct screamed that she had information about the missing silks and that Crenardieu was responsible for stealing Geoffrey’s shipment.

  His frown deepened, for Gisela’s hands were quivering. An awkward giggle escaped her. “Now the moment is upon me, I do not know how to begin.”

  Her wobbly voice melted some of his irritation. Glaring at her was hardly the way to encourage her to share what she knew. He must assure her, with words and comforting gestures, that he wouldn’t cast judgment upon what she told him. “Why not start with how you came to bear this knowledge?”

  She blinked, tears sparkling along her lower lashes. “Bear this knowledge,” she repeated softly with another laugh. “Oh, God.”

  Her shrill tone grated on his nerves. Patience, Dominic. Setting his hands on his hips, he studied her, barely resisting the urge to place his hands upon her shoulders and persuade her with a caress.

  After inhaling a tremulous breath, she said, “’Tis about . . . us.”

  “Us,” he repeated. Confusion tangled with a wild, yearning anticipation. Memories flooded into his mind, careening one over another.

  “What happened between you and . . . me years ago.”

  He squinted at her. “’Tis not about the silk?”

  “Silk!” Her face whitened. “Why would you think that I—”

  “Why would I not? Every thread of information I have discovered so far leads me to Crenardieu. And, Sweet Daisy, to you.”

  “Me?” Her breathless whisper seemed to hover in the room.

  “Aye. You.”

  Her hand fluttered to her throat. Her lips parted. She clearly intended to refute him, but no sound emerged. Not even the faintest, choked protest.

  Anxiety widened her watery eyes. Then, her gaze sharpened with determination. She whirled and marched to the door, her hair swaying to and fro against her back.

  He scowled at her. “Gisela!”

  She flinched, but didn’t halt or glance back at him.

  “Do not run from me.” He stormed after her.

  “Run? Why should I?” she shot back. “Show me the louts who are spying on me. Ask them about the accursed silk. They will know far more than I.”

  He might have believed her, except she was now shaking from head to toe. And her voice . . . Her desperation revealed all. Her will might be strong, but her body betrayed her.

  Gisela grabbed the door handle. Yanked the panel open.

  Striding up behind her, he clamped his hand over hers. He shoved the door closed with a firm click.

  She stood very still, clearly frozen by the subtle but meaningful show of force, her breathing coming in uneven gasps. Pressed lightly against her back, he felt each inhalation and shudder. She stared at his hand covering hers as though unable to tear her gaze away.

  Dominic couldn’t help but spread his fingers wider upon her skin, to touch more of her. To feel her. He wanted to groan aloud with the pleasure of touching her.

  She swallowed. As he looked at her taut profile, the petal-smooth column of her neck begged for his kiss. His gaze moved down, to her tantalizing cleavage at the top of her bodice, and he fought his own shudder. Ah, God, he couldn’t help but stare.

  He hauled his focus back to her face—the delicate line of her jaw, her rose-pink mouth, her smooth cheek . . . perfection in each cu
rve. No well-bred noblewoman’s profile could be more exquisite.

  “Crenardieu’s men—” she said in a strained whisper.

  “I do not wish to ask them,” he said just as softly. “I wish to ask you.”

  As I wish to feel you. Taste you. Kiss you.

  He inhaled, drawing in the essence of her. Warmth, sunlight . . . Completion. Closing his eyes, he let the scent of her wash through him. Like the summer sun, her being burned through the tangle of his restraint. Singed him with a need. He pressed closer. His torso brushed her back. His groin nudged her bottom.

  Ah, God! To touch you like this, after so very long!

  “Dominic,” she gasped. Her spine arched, an attempt to sever the intimate contact. Yet, the movement forced her supple body to glide against his, fluid and tantalizing, like sunlight skimming over water.

  Intense, consuming heat flooded through him, focusing where their bodies touched. He could hardly breathe. He stared down at the crown of her head, mesmerized by her shining gold hair that led his gaze down, again, to her bosom.

  How perfect her breasts had felt in his palm. Warm. Ripe.

  He dipped his head and kissed her hair.

  A sigh wrenched from her. “Stop.”

  “Why?”

  “Please.” No more than a whisper, ragged with anguish and . . . desire.

  Dominic clamped his jaw against the voices inside his head urging him to heed her plea. She was married. Forbidden. Yet, she herself had denied any commitment to her husband, and Dominic must know what she kept from him. Chivalry had its place in the ways between men and women, but he’d been patient long enough.

  He removed his hand covering hers. How he missed her skin’s warmth—but only for a moment. When she uncurled her fingers and they slipped from the door handle, he placed his hands upon the curve of her hips. Her gown’s coarse fabric—very different from the clothes she’d worn in the meadow that summer—grazed his palms.

  Anticipation rippled through him. I care not that you are dressed in commoner’s garb. I know the delicate silk of your naked skin. I have caressed it. Tasted it. Kissed the sun-warmed patch below your—

  “Nay!” she cried, as if attuned to his wanton cravings. She twisted in his hold, darting sideways faster than he imagined possible.