A Knight's Reward Page 4

  If he had to, he could attack with lethal efficiency. He had learned from necessity, when, his body soaked with sweat and his hauberk stained crimson with blood, he’d stared into the dark eyes of the enemy and known he had but one choice: to survive.

  The thought of taking another life twisted his innards. However, if whoever approached intended to kill him, survival was the one and only choice—as it had been on crusade.

  Straw rustled.

  Any moment now, his assailant would round the steep mound of hay.

  Edging forward, Dominic tightened his hold on the dagger. His body tensed. Pain throbbed along with the acute tension, but he paid it no heed.

  He listened.

  Waited.

  A cloaked figure walked into his line of vision. The intruder held an object in his right hand. A weapon? “D—?”

  Before his mind acknowledged the voice, he lunged. Catapulting forward, he collided with the intruder. His breath exhaled on a roar as, with his body weight, he slammed the cloaked figure against the stable wall. His left arm pinned the intruder’s neck. He raised his knife, just as he realized how slight the person was, compared to the burly men he’d fought earlier.

  A hard object thumped on the toe of his boot, then fell into the straw.

  “Dominic!” Gisela gasped. Framed by the cloak’s hood, her face looked as white as death. With the haze of attack fleeing from his mind, he recognized the rounded softness of her breasts beneath the woolen cloak, the flaxen shimmer of her hair peeking out from the hood, and her sweet scent.

  “God’s blood!” Lowering the dagger, he stepped back. “I am sorry.”

  Her mouth parted, but no sound emerged.

  His exertions caught up to him. He sucked in a shaky breath, then grimaced. He forced a wry laugh. “We must stop meeting in such dire ways, Gisela. Otherwise, I shall become as witless as a block of cheese.”

  Her trembling hand rose to her lips. She stared at the dagger. Revulsion clouded her eyes, while her fingers slid down her cloak to rest above her right breast.

  “Gisela,” he murmured.

  She didn’t seem to hear him. She continued to stare at the knife, which clearly held a terrible fascination. The horror on her face . . . It threatened to shatter him.

  “Gisela!”

  Her expression did not change. Her fingers pressed to her cloak, as though to stop blood gushing from a wound.

  An icy chill skittered down his spine. She seemed in some kind of grisly trance. He’d witnessed men in such a state after battle, the gruesomeness of what they had encountered so overwhelming, they’d retreated into their own minds. Some never made the mental journey back.

  Why would she react so? Surely she had not experienced battle.

  Ignoring his nagging worry, he bent and pushed the knife back into its sheath. After straightening with a pained grunt, he stepped past her to retrieve the object lying in the straw a few yards away: an earthenware pot.

  Dominic removed the lid and caught the pungent, herbal scent of salve. Astonishment lanced through him. She had come to tend his wounds.

  She did care what happened to him, then.

  He replaced the lid. Cradling the pot in his palm, he turned to face her. Her slender fingers still touched above her breast, but a hint of color had returned to her cheeks. Cognizance glimmered again in her eyes.

  He tried not to stare, but he couldn’t keep his gaze from dropping to her hand at her bosom. With wicked intensity, he remembered her breasts framed by her partly removed bodice. How smooth her breasts were, so exquisitely perfect, when he’d cupped them with his hands years ago.

  Had he injured her, when he threw her against the wall? Mayhap he’d bruised her lovely flesh, or accidentally cut her. “Did I hurt you?”

  She made a nervous little sound before shaking her head. She snatched her fingers away. A rosy stain darkened her cheekbones.

  Dominic dragged a hand over his mouth. He had to do something with his traitorous palm that wanted to cover the place she’d just abandoned.

  Searching for words to ease the awkward silence, he said, “I did not mean to frighten you.”

  “W-why did you threaten me with your knife?” She shivered as she spoke and hugged her arms across her chest.

  “I thought you were the baker and his friend, returning to ensure I left Clovebury.”

  Her gaze fixed on his bruised jaw. Compassion shadowed her eyes. “Did the baker hit you?”

  “As often as I pummeled him. He got me well in the ribs, though.” Dominic chuckled, but grimaced as discomfort shot through his face and rib cage. “Believe me, Gisela, if I had known ’twas you, I would never have drawn my dagger.”

  A tentative smile curved her mouth. “You do not intend to take me from here?”

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  She tightened her arms across her bosom. “I must know, Dominic. To be absolutely certain. You have not come . . . been sent by . . .” Her breath shuddered between her lips. “You were not—”

  “No one sent me to find you, or take you from here by force, if that is what you ask.”

  The faintest gleam of hope lit her eyes. “That is . . . the truth?”

  Annoyance pricked him like a rose’s thorns. Her distrust hurt him more deeply than he’d ever anticipated, especially after relinquishing his necklace. However, it seemed she had reason to be afraid, to doubt even him, when long ago, she’d trusted him, as no other man before, with the reward of her body’s sweetness.

  What had happened to her? What—or who—had changed his laughing, vibrant Gisela into a frightened, suspicious woman who preferred shadow to sunlight?

  He would find out.

  Forcing his lips into a smile, he said, “Of course, ’tis the truth. What reason would I have to speak falsely to you?”

  Hope shone more brightly now in her gaze. “Promise me, Dominic.”

  The words reverberated in his thoughts. A memory revived, of her sitting surrounded by meadow flowers, her fetching smile tinged with sadness. Promise me, Dominic, she’d said. Promise you will keep my memory in your soul, no matter what befalls you. I shall do the same, my love, for I shall never forget you.

  His eyes burned. ’Twas tougher this time to smile. His hand closed tighter around the salve pot, warmed by his palm. He managed to say, “I promise. I am no fire-breathing dragon, Gisela, come to destroy you. I am but a flesh-and-blood man.” And one who has missed you very, very much.

  Her gaze softened. A puff of breath escaped her, before she blinked hard. Moisture glistened along her bottom lashes. “Thank God.”

  “Gisela—”

  A sob broke from her. She closed the space between them, her hands fisting and uncurling as she walked. He ached to reach out and take her in his arms. To kiss her hair’s silken softness. To hold her close and whisper that she never had to fear dragons ever again, for he would slay them with pebbles and straw if need be.

  Would she let him embrace her? Mayhap she would think him too bold.

  She probably belonged to another man, now.

  Ah, what a painful thought!

  Gisela hesitated before him. Her scent, perfumed with ambrosial memories of that summer meadow, teased him. Part of him begged to step away, to put distance between them and remove the temptation to touch her.

  He could not. Like long ago, he was . . .

  Captivated.

  She tipped up her chin. Her hair slipped down off her shoulders in a golden ripple. Her moist gaze, haunted with a maelstrom of emotions, skimmed his face. Slowly. Carefully. As though comparing the man she remembered to the one who stood before her now.

  Her breath rasped between her lips. Not quite a sob, but not a controlled exhalation, either. Anticipation hovered in each shuddered breath.

  He was so entranced by the scent and sound of her, he didn’t expect her touch. Light as a daisy petal, her fingers brushed his jaw. A tentative, almost disbelieving exploration.

  “Oh, Dominic,” she w
hispered, tears streaming down her face. “I still cannot believe you are here.”

  “But, I am.” Ignoring the pain when he moved, he caught her hand. He pressed her palm to his skin, trapping his bruise beneath their joined hands.

  She sniffled. “How—”

  “I will tell you all,” he promised. “Whatever you wish to know.” Lifting her fingers away from his cheek, cradling them in his own, he kissed her palm. “’Tis good to see you, Gisela.”

  “And you,” she said softly, her gaze fixed to her palm, as though she saw his kiss there, shimmering like a precious jewel.

  Without looking away, he dropped the salve pot into the straw by his boots. Reaching up, he caught a stray lock of her hair, wondrously silken, as he remembered. A groan rumbled in his throat. She quivered, but didn’t pull away.

  Touch her, his mind whispered. Kiss her, like before.

  Just when he thought to slide his arm around her waist to draw her close, he heard men talking in the tavern yard. Gisela started. Whirling away, she yanked her hood back over her head. As tense as a cornered doe, she faced the stable doorway.

  A bitter taste flooded his tongue. How he hated to see her so changed.

  “Do not be afraid,” Dominic said. “’Tis probably farmers headed to The Stubborn Mule for a drink.”

  “Or the two men returning for you.”

  A grudging grin tilted his mouth. “If so, and there is another confrontation, I will protect you.”

  She glanced at him. “You are injured.”

  “A nuisance, aye, but I can still fight.”

  God’s teeth, she looked about to scold him. As though he were a dull-witted child who could not even put on his own undergarments without help.

  He scowled.

  Gisela threw out her hands. “Your wounds need to be tended. You cannot fight when you are wounded.”

  Nay? Ha!

  “There is no other choice, Dominic,” she said tightly. “You cannot stay here. You must come home with me.”

  ***

  You must come home with me.

  Even as she spoke the words, uncertainty gnawed at Gisela’s frustration. Taking Dominic to her house wove a whole new knot into their relationship, one she had no idea how to face. Just the thought of him and Ewan in the same room made her stomach twist in a most unsettling fashion. However, there was no other option at this moment, apart from leaving Dominic in the stable, and she simply couldn’t abandon him.

  Dominic was staring at her with the most curious expression—a mixture of disbelief and pleasure. Almost as if she’d told him they must both strip off their garments and dangle upside down from the rafters.

  Trust him to think such.

  He cleared his throat. Keeping his voice down, to keep their conversation from whomever stood outside in the yard, he said, “Are you certain ’tis a good idea?”

  Nay. ’Twas probably the most foolish idea she’d ever conceived. Somehow, she managed a confident smile. “Of course.”

  He pulled his fingers through his hair, wincing at the effort. The men’s voices came from outside again. Her gaze flew to the doorway, tension buzzing so sharply in her veins, she wanted to scream. Reaching down, she snatched up the pot of salve—better to take it than have to buy more—and then gestured for him to follow. She started toward the stable doorway with light, quick steps.

  He muttered under his breath.

  Stiffness gathered between her shoulder blades. If he made one more idiotic protest—

  Straw rustled beside her, and then his strong, firm hand caught her elbow. Memories of Ryle’s commanding grip lanced through her, and she instinctively recoiled, lurching, almost falling in her panic.

  Dominic cursed. He instantly released her. His hand fell to his side, while his eyes narrowed, as if to shutter his concern. But, it still shimmered in his gaze. “God’s bloody knees, Gisela. When we are somewhere we can talk, you will tell me why you are so afeared.”

  Her mouth tightened at his authoritative tone. So very different from long ago, yet his boldness had likely kept him alive when others perished on crusade. Even as she recognized the toughened warrior he’d become, the maternal part of her surged to the fore.

  “When we are somewhere we can talk,” she said quietly, “you will not curse like a foul-mouthed sot. Agreed?” She did not want to spend days trying to stop Ewan from using the same words over and over.

  Dominic’s brows raised.

  Fie! He had the audacity to look . . . affronted?

  “Also,” she said, keeping her voice low, “when others are about, you will call me Anne.”

  “As the baker did earlier,” Dominic murmured. “Why?”

  “Because in this town, that is my name.”

  “Ah.” With a curious smile, he said, “Are you, also, disguised as someone else?”

  Dread snaked through her. Shaking her head, she said, “Dominic, do not change the subject. Do you agree?”

  “I do.” He grinned. “I will be a very well-behaved knight.”

  He sounded just like Ewan—and his gaze held the same mischievous sparkle. Oh, God, was she wise to take Dominic to her home? What other choice did she have? None. “Let us be on our w—”

  Laughter erupted outside.

  The mirth vanished from Dominic’s eyes. “Help me get out of this,” he whispered, motioning to his long, filthy mantle.

  “What? Why—”

  “The baker and his assistant—and any of their friends—know me as a peddler. I will leave the disguise here.” He handed her the knife, then unfastened the mantle and began to shrug out of it. Pain darkened his eyes.

  “Let me.” With a shaking hand, she helped him remove the tattered garment, aware of his breath warming the wool of her hood, and the heat of his body underneath the bulky garment. The mantle dropped to the straw. Underneath he wore a simple brown tunic, hose, and boots, well-fitting garments that defined his broad, muscular form.

  Their gazes met for a moment before he reclaimed the knife. He stepped ahead of her, shielding her body with his own. The dagger glinted.

  With his free hand, he cautioned her to remain still. He edged forward to peer toward the doorway. She heard his indrawn breath when he moved in a way that strained his injuries.

  A moment later, he gestured for her to join him.

  “The men are heading to the tavern,” he said in hushed tones. “Take my hand, and we will head for the alley.” As he spoke, he turned the dagger so the flat of the blade pressed against his wrist and forearm, hidden by his tunic’s cuff.

  She nodded and slid her fingers into his.

  Sensation glimmered where their palms touched. It spread through her, a delicious warmth akin to the sun slipping free of a storm cloud. A sigh shivered from her. The brush of his callused skin against hers, his snug but gentle grip, the memory of his touch long ago, sent awareness flooding through her. And an undeniable sense of . . . belonging.

  Biting down on her lip, she looked up at Dominic, leading her toward the stable’s doorway. If he’d noticed her reaction to his touch, he didn’t acknowledge it, not even by the slightest glance back. Drawing her close behind him, he stepped out of the stable’s shadows into the sunlight.

  Dirt crunched under his strong strides—markedly different from the clumsy, shuffled gait of the peddler he had pretended to be. At a swift pace, he led her toward the narrow alley. Rowdy laughter came from the tavern. She dared a sidelong glance and saw two men stepping through the open doorway.

  The weather-beaten panel swung shut.

  She blew out a relieved breath.

  With a wry chuckle, Dominic drew her into the alley. Glancing over his shoulder, he said, “’Twas a heavy sigh, Gisela.”

  “We do not appear to have been followed.”

  “That we know of.”

  She swallowed. “You mean—”

  “We will not dally.” While he spoke, he urged her to a quicker pace. “There may be thugs waiting for us at the street ahead.�
�

  “Waiting for you, you mean,” she said. “You must be a dangerous man, Dominic.”

  His shoulders stiffened. Tension, now, defined his strides. As they hurried on, the smoky tang of the blacksmith’s market fire carrying on the breeze, Dominic muttered, “I had not thought so.”

  “You had reason, though, to be disguised as a peddler. Do you have enemies in Clovebury?”

  He suddenly froze, as though hearing a suspicious noise, and pressed her back against the stone wall of a nearby building. Flattened beside her, he said quietly, “We will discuss the matter later.” After freeing his hand from hers, he slid the knife from his sleeve. He glanced at the entry to the alley. Tense. Alert.

  A guarded secretiveness shadowed his handsome face. Resolve defined the set of his mouth. As she looked up at him, a wilder, tougher version of the man she’d loved, she wondered how much she really knew him. And whether he would answer her question.

  Years ago, even though he was the son of a rich lord and she but a common merchant’s daughter, they would have told each other anything. Promised each other anything.

  Now . . .

  Pressing her fingers to the building’s rough stone, she tried to ignore the anguish of lost dreams. Both of their lives had changed, too much for her to hope he’d be in her life again with any more permanence than a shifting sunbeam.

  Despite what they’d shared in the past . . . and what they had in common now.

  Dominic no doubt had hundreds of beautiful, wealthy noblewomen vying for his attentions. Years ago, after the arranged marriage his father and stepmother had tried to force upon him, he’d vowed he would never wed. How he had railed in the meadow, stomping through the grass and cursing his entrapment that had naught to do with love, only his father’s ambitions. To escape his betrothal to the highborn lady barely thirteen years old, he’d joined the king’s crusade and left England.

  Now that he’d returned, an older and more worldly-wise man, he likely viewed marriage differently. He was probably wed to a lady worthy of his noble status, with children of his own.

  Swallowing down the distressing thought, Gisela watched him peer into the alley. He grimaced, revealing the motion hurt. Then he laughed and shook his head. A mangy cat bounded past, a mouse in its jaws.