A Knight's Reward Page 2

  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.”

  “Why?”

  Shaking her head, she fought not to weep. “Please.”

  His searching gaz
e traveled over her. “Do you fear someone will find us here together?” He paused, before adding, “Mayhap your husband?”

  A horrified gasp broke from Gisela. When Dominic took another step toward her, desperation spurred her into motion. She bolted for the space between him and the hay bales. The musty crunch of straw, as loud as her own breathing, filled her ears.

  If she were quick enough, if she surprised him before he realized her intentions—

  Just as she brushed past Dominic, his arm slid around her waist. She shrieked, struggled against his hold, but before she could draw another breath, she found herself spun around.

  Kicking his shins, pounding her fists against his chest, she tried to wrench free.

  Dominic grunted. “Gisela!”

  With a sharp oath, he wobbled, then keeled sideways. Before she could pull free from his hold, the stable blurred around her. She was falling!

  Gisela landed on her back in the mound of straw.

  With a loud “oof,” Dominic landed beside her. He’d shielded her fall so she did not hit the hard-packed dirt, she realized with a twinge of gratitude.

  Flicking bits of straw from her face, she struggled to rise.

  Leaning on one arm beside her, his face a hand’s span above hers, Dominic shook his head. His broad, tanned palm splayed on her belly. “I will not let you run away, Gisela. I will have an explanation.”

  Chapter Two

  Dominic stared down into Gisela’s ashen, frightened face, barely resisting the urge to shake her. Concern and frustration twisted up inside him with punishing intensity. Why did she look upon him as though he were a fire-breathing, maiden-devouring dragon, rather than a past lover?

  How different she seemed from the self-confident, sensual woman he remembered.

  In the stable’s dim light, he studied her. Her long, golden hair, loosened from its confining leather thong, tangled about her in the straw. Her thickly lashed blue eyes looked huge against her pale skin. Strong cheekbones, more prominent than he remembered, defined her oval-shaped face, coaxing his gaze to slip down to her wide, generous lips, which parted as she sucked in an anxious breath.

  He swallowed the bitter aftertaste of regret, for he remembered every luscious nuance of her mouth. How he’d lost himself in the eager brush of her lips.

  That seemed an eternity ago.

  Clearing an uncomfortable tightness from his throat, he dragged his gaze from her mouth. Meeting her watery gaze, he coaxed, “Tell me why you are so afeared.”

  Beneath his splayed hand, her belly rose and fell on a ragged sigh. Layers of woolen cloak, as well as her garments, separated them. Yet, as though ’twere yesterday, his palm remembered the softness of her skin, deliciously pliant beneath his caress and warmed by the meadow sun.

  A shudder raked through him.

  She must have felt it, too, for her eyes flared even more. With a gasp, she twisted sideways, clearly about to scramble across the straw. Catching her arm, he hauled her back. Meeting her furious glare, he said, “You are not making this easy for me, now, are you?”

  “Please, Dominic.” She trembled in his grasp, while her tone became urgent. “I beg you. Do not take me from here.”

  Frowning, he reached out to pull away straw dangling from her tresses. “Why do you fear I would?”

  She shrank from his touch. Never before had she recoiled from him, a reaction that implied he epitomized danger, not reassurance. Anguish fueled his impatience. When he caught the wayward straw and flicked it aside, voices again carried from the tavern yard. Two men, he discerned, from their brisk conversation.

  Gisela shivered.

  He gently squeezed her arm. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  Staring up at him, she rubbed her lips together. For a moment, in her eyes, he caught a glimmer of trust. He sensed she yearned to confide in him. Then, as though catching herself, her gaze again darkened with suspicion.

  Resisting the urge to curse like a drunken fishmonger, he let go of her arm. The roughness of her sleeve still prickled his palm. “I cannot help you, Gisela, if you will not trust me.”

  Her chin rose to a wary tilt. “How can I be certain you wish to help me? Many years have passed since I last saw you.”

  “True, but—”

  “Nay, Dominic,” she cut in, pushing up one arm, her eyes blazing with blue fire. “For all I know, you might—”

  “—have been captivated by you in the market? So much so that I had to follow you, and then discovered you were my long-lost love? Aye. ’Tis the truth of it.”

  “If I may finish,” she said softly, “you might—”

  “—still, after all the years we have been apart, crave your kiss.” Refusing to break her stunned gaze, he trailed his fingers down her cheek.

  A gruff shout came from just outside the stable.

  “Nay!” she croaked, twisting away so his hand dropped to her shoulder. She scrambled to her feet.

  Dominic pushed up from the straw. When he moved, he felt the leather-sheathed knife, concealed in his boot, pressing against his calf. At least, if the situation turned threatening, he had a way to protect himself. And her.

  Her spine rigid, hands curled into fists, Gisela hesitated several paces away. Ah, God. How he wanted her trust. To prove that, despite what she imagined, he was still very much the man she’d known long ago.

  Mayhap there was a way . . .

  Reaching to his nape, he swept aside his hair, then untied the thin strip of leather he’d worn around his neck every day since they had parted. With careful fingers, he drew the necklace from beneath his garments.

  “Here.” He offered it to her, the tattered white object at the end luminous in a slant of sunlight.

  She took his necklace, just as footfalls crunched on the straw. Two men rounded the mounded hay bales—the baker accompanied by the blacksmith’s assistant, whose broad shoulders and stout arms proved him a man of formidable strength. Clenched in the baker’s right hand was Dominic’s cane.

  Unease rippled through Dominic. Upon seeing him, the baker’s weathered face twisted into a scowl. The blacksmith’s assistant smirked.

  Dominic brushed straw from his peddler’s mantle. He did not like the looks upon the men’s faces.

  The baker glanced at Gisela, who had concealed the necklace in her fist. His scowl softened, betraying his genuine affection for her. ’Twas a look a widowed man would bestow upon a comely woman he hoped to woo.

  Dominic’s gut clenched.

  “Are ye hale, Anne?” the baker asked her.

  Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, Gisela nodded. “I am fine. Thank you.”

  “Ye do not look fine.” Thrusting an insolent hand toward Dominic, the baker said, “I saw ’im run after ye. Quite a sight, that was, seein’ ’im ’obblin’ alon’ one moment, then droppin’ ’is stick and breakin’ into a run.”

  Dominic forced a good-natured chuckle. He would be wise to offer some kind of explanation, before the situation escalated into a brawl. “My good man—”

  The baker’s lip curled. “If I had known ye were a trickster, not a crippled peddler, ye would not ’ave got even one crumb from me.”

  A guilty flush warmed Dominic’s face. “’Twas most kind of you to give me the bread to break my fast. Very generous, indeed. I will be sure to pay you for it.”

  The baker snorted. “Sure ye will.” His gaze narrowed. “Ye may not be aware, fool, but ’is lordship, Geoffrey de Lanceau, does not take kindly ta thieves in ’is lands.”

  A smile tugged at Dominic’s mouth. Being Geoffrey’s closest friend, he knew his lord’s opinions extremely well. Having fought beside Geoffrey on crusade, helped him recover from mortal wounds cleaved by Saracen steel, and supported his recent quest to avenge his father’s murder, Dominic vowed he knew Geoffrey better than anyone—apart from Geoffrey’s lady wife, Elizabeth.

  Pride threatened to undermine Dominic’s determination not to grin. Geoffrey had many knights and men-at-arms at his com
mand. He could have sent any of them on the crucial mission to find out who’d stolen his cloth shipment. But, he’d chosen Dominic. The decision signified tremendous faith in Dominic’s abilities—and he would not fail his friend.

  Raising his hands in a gesture intended to ease the tension, Dominic looked at the baker, then the assistant. “Look, I meant no insult to you or your lord. My disguise was necessary, you see, to avoid knaves who tried to rob me earlier. If I may explain—”

  Spitting a coarse oath, the baker threw the cane onto the straw. It landed with a thump by Dominic’s feet.

  “I had hoped to resolve this without a fight,” Dominic muttered, sensing, even as he spoke, that the situation had gone beyond a peaceful resolution.

  “Please.” Gisela touched the baker’s arm. “There was no harm done. I do not wish anyone hurt.”

  The baker tipped his head toward the stable doorway. “Go on, now, Anne.”

  She shook her head. “Not ’til I know the disagreement is over.”

  Lines of strain marked the corners of her mouth. Dominic suppressed an inner groan, for he’d never intended to cause her worry. “’Tis all right,” he said gently.

  She glanced at him. A ribbon of sunlight, streaming in through a botched repair in the wall, flowed over her, wrapping her in shimmering gold. “Mayhap if you explained that you are an old . . . friend of mine—”

  Dominic doubted that would resolve the situation. Still, he gave her a reassuring smile. “I shall.” He passed her the bread she’d left atop the grain barrel. “Go, now, like the good baker said.”

  Gisela sucked her bottom lip between her teeth, a gesture of reluctance he had adored long ago.

  “Go,” he said gruffly.

  “I . . . Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye, Anne.”

  Spinning on her heel, her hair tangling about her shoulders, she hurried away.

  Her footsteps faded to silence. Flexing their hands, the baker and his assistant grinned. The stable’s shadows seemed to darken with menace as the men stepped toward Dominic.

  Anticipation of battle, as familiar to him as his own name, surged to life in his blood. In the east, he had fought and killed more men than he could remember. ’Twould be a shame to harm these two villagers who were riled over a misunderstanding—one, regrettably, he couldn’t clarify due to his mission for Geoffrey.