A Knight's Reward Read online

  He inhaled sharply, stunned by the sensations elicited by that brief contact.

  She paused. “Did I hurt you?”

  Aye, you are causing me tremendous torment.

  “Nay, Daisy. I am deciding where, exactly, I should begin my tale.”

  Gisela stood so close, he could dip his chin and kiss the crown of her head. Her tresses shimmered like the purest gold, while her fragrance drifted to him, delicate, yet . . . captivating. Her essence, as sweet as wildflower nectar, tantalized him in a way no other woman’s had, before or after her. “It sounds very important,” she murmured, slipping more of the linen around his torso. When her warm fingertips brushed his spine, he shuddered.

  “Indeed, ’tis,” he said, clearing the huskiness from his voice. “I would not have been in disguise otherwise.”

  Her hand stilled. “Dominic, were you involved in some kind of misdeed?”

  Nay, but I may be, if you keep tormenting me with your hands.

  Mentally sweeping away his inappropriate thoughts, he smiled down at her. “I am not a hunted criminal, if that is what you ask. I came to Clovebury because I was ordered here by my good friend and lord, Geoffrey de Lanceau.”

  “The Lord de Lanceau? Who lives with his lady wife and son at Branton Keep?”

  “The same.” Dominic could not contain a proud grin. “As you probably know, Geoffrey is lord of most of Moydenshire.”

  Awe glistened in her eyes. As well as an inkling of . . . dread?

  “So,” she said, “you are his spy.”

  Dominic nodded.

  She exhaled a shaky breath. Her fingers felt damp against his skin. Ah. He had startled her with his revelation. Knowing he was a man of great importance, she viewed him differently. She probably worried about botching the bandaging.

  He must reassure her immediately. “I am still the same Dominic you knew long ago,” he said, “despite my allegiance to de Lanceau.”

  She did not look at all convinced. After tying the bandage, she reached for another. “If I may ask, what brings you to Clovebury? Did you come to investigate the recent spate of robberies?”

  A frown touched Dominic’s brow. “I did not know of such robberies.”

  Shaking her head, Gisela continued her bandaging. “Many of the shop owners fear their premises will be broken into and their goods destroyed. The break-ins usually happen at night, and are committed either by local thugs or vagrants. The potter’s shop is among those recently vandalized.” Raising her gaze, she said, “He is a good friend of the baker’s.”

  “A good reason, then, for him to distrust strangers,” Dominic said.

  Surprise widened her gaze before she again lowered her lashes, golden against her fair skin. When her fingers touched his torso, and an answering shiver broke through him, he said, “My quest for de Lanceau could well be connected to these robberies. However, I do not know yet. I have been tasked, you see, to discover who stole Geoffrey’s shipment of cloth sent to him by river.”

  “What kind of cloth?”

  “Silks. Bolts of the finest, most luxurious fabric . . .”

  His voice trailed off. She gaped up at him with a most curious expression: a touching blend of suspicion and dismay.

  Her mouth, parted on a silent gasp, snapped shut. Blinking hard, she again looked at his bandages. But, from her distant gaze, he guessed her thoughts were not on this moment, but elsewhere.

  “Gisela?”

  “Mmm?”

  He caught hold of her upper arms. She stiffened. Her hands, about to sweep the linen around his back again, dropped to his torso. The warmth of her fingers pressed to his skin . . .

  He must not allow himself to be distracted.

  “Do you know about the stolen silks?”

  A sharp little laugh broke from her. “Me? Why would I?”

  “You are a tailor. You earn your living from making garments.”

  Her gaze fell to her hands, curled against his chest. She gnawed her lip again. “Dominic—”

  “I only ask, Gisela, because a client may have asked you about sewing garments from silk.” He gently squeezed her arms. “Not because I suspect you are involved with stealing Geoffrey’s shipments or any other wrongdoing.”

  A shaky breath rushed between her lips. She slowly nodded. “If I seem . . . shocked,” she said, each word spoken with care, “’tis because I hate to think there are folk in this town—a place I consider my home—who would steal from Lord de Lanceau.” Her throat moved with a swallow. “I cannot believe it.”

  “’Tis the truth.”

  Her body quivered in his hold, proof of how much the thought unnerved her. “Is that why you were disguised as a peddler? To try to find the thieves?”

  Dominic nodded. “Geoffrey decided ’twas the best approach for now, rather than send out a contingent of men-at-arms. The thieves might run, then, with the silks—making it more difficult to find the stolen cloth. ’Tis vital to recover all of the missing bolts.” He grinned. “I hoped to linger about the market, to eavesdrop on the local gossipers. Then, I saw you.”

  A flush stained her face. “I thwarted your plans.”

  “Nay. Merely delayed them.” Squeezing her arms one more time, he released her and glanced down at his bandages. “Are you almost done?”

  “Aye.” With gentle hands, she resumed wrapping the linen about his ribs. Not too tight. Loose enough for his chest to expand and constrict with each breath. As though, somehow, she knew the secrets of good bandaging. Of course, having a rambunctious son, she’d likely learned by tending his wounds.

  “If you hear any word about the silks—or mayhap a customer brings some to you to be made into clothes—you will tell me, aye?”

  “Few in Clovebury have the means to buy silk, Dominic,” she said quietly.

  “Geoffrey’s shipment is in this town somewhere. It left the town farther upriver, but did not reach Branton. Clovebury is the only riverfront town in between.”

  After knotting the last bandage, she tucked the ends into the rest of the wrappings. “How does that feel?”

  “Much better. Thank you.”

  “If you sit again, I will tend your jaw.”

  He almost answered that he could tend the injury himself—even a simpleton could rub on some salve—but he found himself dropping back down on the bench. Holding the pot, she leaned closer and dabbed ointment on his wound.

  The salve’s strong scent assailed him. Yet, it carried the soft undertone of her fragrance. A reminder that she, above all, was the reason he spoke of the silks in the first place.

  “What I have told you about Geoffrey’s stolen cloth, you must keep to yourself,” he said in clear warning. “You must tell no one.”

  One hand on his chin, she was leaning back to inspect his wound. Her gaze slid to his. “I will not.”

  “That is a solemn oath, Gisela, healer of Sir Dominic the Mighty Dragon Slayer?”

  She rolled her eyes and laughed. “’Tis.”

  “Good.” He smiled at her. “Now, Gisela, ’tis your turn to share your confidence with me. Tell me what—or whom—you fear.”

  Chapter Five

  Refusal, scalding like hot soup, rose in Gisela’s throat. The salve on her fingers suddenly felt cold, as if a breeze had invaded her home and chilled her skin. Breaking her gaze from Dominic’s, she stepped from between his legs, pressed the stopper into the pot, and set it down on the table.

  “You must tell me.”

  Dominic’s voice, taut with emotion, forced her gaze back to him. The angles of his cheekbones looked harsher, all teasing boyishness gone from his expression. A steely tension surrounded him. He would look this way in the moments before he charged into battle.

  Looking back at the table, she picked up a clean bandage and dried her fingers. She struggled to deny the command in his stare. Refusing him was akin to denying the sun’s warmth. Impossible.

  Their gazes locked. Such resolve gleamed in his brown eyes. His desire for answers obviousl
y consumed him.

  A similar consuming heat, rooted in the love they’d once shared, bloomed within her. Gisela struggled to smother it, to quell the other emotions taking root—longing, desire, and regret. She moistened her bottom lip with her tongue and set aside the bandage, while fighting to bolster the courage that had kept her and Ewan alive. “Dominic, please, I cannot—”

  “Who has wounded you so?” His tone almost a growl, he said, “Who, Gisela? Your lover?”

  Tears burned her eyes. “I have no lover.” I have loved no man, Dominic, but you.

  His gaze sharpened to a piercing stare. “Your husband?”

  She had anticipated the question. Still, a gasp jammed in her throat. The room blurred around her. Her fingers skidded blindly over the table, seeking hold, finally clamping to the edge of the scarred but serviceable oak. A wheezing sound broke from her.

  The bench creaked. Before she could wave him away, Dominic stood beside her. His hands pressed to her shoulders.

  “Gisela,” he whispered. Such fury crackled in his voice. It turned her innards as cold as a bleak winter night.

  The heat of his palms warmed her through the gown and shift she wore underneath. His touch thawed some of the numbness inside her, threatening to melt it. Oh, God. If only she could accept the comfort he offered.

  “You fear your husband,” Dominic said quietly, as if he needed her to confirm what she’d unintentionally revealed.

  Deny the truth, part of her shrilled. Do what you must—say what you must—to keep Dominic from knowing about Ryle. However, Dominic’s touch, offering trust and compassion, held a coaxing persuasion all its own.

  “I call no man ‘husband,’” she bit out. “Not anymore.”

  “What happened?” he whispered.

  Misery, anger, and shame tangled up inside her. She fought a sob.

  Dominic spat an oath. He gently massaged her shoulders; he must have felt the tension cinching her muscles into knots. “Tell me what he did to you, Sweet Daisy.”

  Nay!

  Gisela twisted in his hold. His hands fell from her shoulders, and his arms dropped to his sides. He did not, however, step away.

  Her bottom pressed against the table’s edge, she faced him now. Her gaze met the swell of his bandaged chest. His masculine scent rose from his skin, tempting her with memories of lying naked beneath him, of the mingled fragrance of their bodies when they’d made love.

  Fisting her trembling hands, she looked up at him.

  He didn’t scowl or quirk a domineering eyebrow. Nor did his gaze sharpen with command. He stood absolutely still, his silence more powerful than words, for he clearly believed he had a right to stand so close. Long ago, with the meadow grass beneath them, the wildflowers watching over them, the sun streaming down upon them, he’d become integral to her existence. As vital as rainwater to a daisy.

  “Gisela,” he coaxed.

  His breath warmed her brow. She fought for emotional detachment. For the safety of distance. Forcing out the words, she said, “I cannot.”

  Dominic’s gaze darkened. “Do you fear he will know what you have told me? I will never betray you.”

  She hated the bitter words burning her tongue. But, she had to force Dominic away, to quell the dangerous emotion into submission, before it crested beyond her control. She’d rather die than give Ryle the opportunity to kill Dominic. “What is between my former husband and me is not your affair.”

  Instead of recoiling in anger, an indulgent smile spread across Dominic’s face. “Aye, Sweet Daisy, ’tis. Ever since I laid eyes upon you in the market.”

  Why? You belong to another woman. I mean naught to you. Throwing up her hands, she cried, “You cannot help me!”

  “How can you be certain? I know Geoffrey very well. Mayhap he can intervene.”

  “Nay! Ry—H-he . . . is a very dangerous man. His temper—”

  “Is he the cause of your fear? How, Sweet Daisy, did he show you this fearsome temper?”

  She looked away. How her disfigured breast ached. The pain cut into her with the bite of a dagger. She longed to press her fingers over the scar, to ease the discomfort, but ’twould only rouse Dominic’s suspicions further.

  Her gaze fell to the side table beside her pallet. His necklace lay there, the bit of embroidered linen very white against the oak. She had no right to keep his memento. Brushing past him, she crossed to the table, collected the necklace, and handed it to him.

  With a wry glance down at his bandages, he said, “Will you put it on for me?”

  “Of course.” Stepping behind him, she fastened the jewelry. Her fingers brushed his tangled hair spilling over his broad shoulders. Magnificent shoulders that bespoke years of physical training required of a knight. Would he notice if she lingered, just for a moment, and appreciated his beauty?

  Gisela, do not be foolish!

  He turned to face her, his fingers touching the ragged scrap that brushed the edge of his bandages. “I have missed my necklace. It seemed as though part of me were missing.”

  Do not say such lovely things. Blinking away the threat of tears, she said, “I am astonished you kept it all these years.”

  He smiled. “Your token brought me luck in battle.” His tone softening, he added, “I am certain it brought me back to you.”

  Oh, Dominic!

  Before she realized his intent, he touched her cheek, a caress so exquisitely tender, she wanted to weep. “Be honest with me, Gisela. Are you afraid to speak to me because your former husband knows where you live? You fear that if he learns you confided in me, he will be angry with you? That he will come here to confront you?”

  How dangerously close Dominic came to the truth. While she could never tell him the truth, she refused to let him believe Ryle lived nearby and she was too weak to try and elude his influence. “He does not live in Clovebury. Neither does he know where I live.” Her voice hardened. “He will never know.”

  A curious light warmed Dominic’s eyes. “With every word, Gisela, I grow more and more intrigued.”

  Fear tingled in her veins like shards of ice. She’d said too much. He owed his allegiance to de Lanceau, who, if he knew she’d fled from Ryle, could well order her returned to her husband. ’Twas the law.

  “Please. No more questions.” She turned away, forcing his hand to drop from her cheek.

  Before she took two steps, he said very quietly, “You ran away.”

  Gisela swallowed, the sound impossibly loud. Panic shrieked inside her. She froze, her mind scrambling for a reasonable explanation to undermine Dominic’s words. But, when she glanced back at him, she saw acknowledgment in his gaze. He knew he’d guessed correctly.

  Oh, God!

  Through a haze of shock, she heard her shop door open. Footfalls pounded on the planks.

  Exhaling a sharp breath, Dominic glanced toward the inner door.

  Ewan rushed into the house, his hood askew. He held up an earthenware pot. “Mama! Ada gave me some honey.”

  “What a wonderful treat,” Gisela said. She glanced at Ada, plodding through the open doorway, wiping sweat from her brow. “I wanted to buy some this week, but after the farmer raised the price on his cabbages—”

  The older woman waved a hand. “Ye do not ’ave ta explain. I like ta make this young ’un smile.”

  Ada’s grin was so infectious, Gisela smiled back. She hoped her little boy did not sense her strain. Looking back at him, she said gently, “Did you say thank you?”

  Ewan swung to face Ada. “Thank you.”

  “Ye are most welcome, little knight.”

  Gisela cast Dominic a sidelong glance. A taut smile curved his mouth before he picked up his tunic. Ada’s narrowed gaze skimmed over his bare back, lingering where the muscles rippled at the edge of the linen strips. The bandages looked flimsy, somehow, compared to his strength.

  Gisela forced down an offer to help him with the tunic. Dominic didn’t want Ewan to perceive him as weak. Unless Dominic asked for assistanc
e, she’d let him don the garment on his own.

  Scampering over, Ewan thrust the pot at Gisela. “May I have some honey on a slice of bread? Please?”

  “Aye, in the morn, to break your fast.”

  “Aw! Can I have some now?”

  Gisela tousled his hair, much in need of a cut. Tomorrow, if she could convince him to sit still long enough, she might trim his locks. “Did you not just eat some pottage?”

  “Aye, but . . .” His lower lip stuck out. “I am still hungry.”

  Despite the strain still humming inside her, Gisela chuckled.

  “He is a growing lad,” Dominic said while easing the tunic over his head. Gesturing to his untouched bowl of pottage on the table, he said, “One reason why I did not eat the portion Ada gave me. ’Twas a kind offer, but I am already a grown knight. I would rather Ewan ate it.”

  The little boy grimaced. “I hate pottage.”

  Dominic winked. “’Twill help you grow into a big, strong warrior.”

  Ewan’s little chest puffed out. “I am a warrior. One day, I will be a knight.”

  Smoothing a hand over his tunic-clad chest, Dominic paused.

  Gisela sensed his astonished glance in her direction. He no doubt wondered how Ewan aspired to be a knight when he wasn’t of the privileged class.

  Oh, but he did have noble blood.

  Sadness threatened to snatch away Gisela’s smile. Refusing to look at Dominic, she rubbed Ewan’s shoulder. “I will fetch your bread. Why do you not remove your mantle and hang it back on the peg by the door?”

  Ewan thrust the honey pot into her hands. Gisela strolled past the trestle table toward the smaller, oak table where she prepared food. Beside it stood a battered cupboard, standing on four squat legs, where she stored vegetables and salted meats. Dominic’s gaze followed her—she felt his stare so intensely—but she resisted the temptation to look back at him.

  When she cleared the trestle table, an object on the floor ahead caught her gaze: Ewan’s toy sword. Adorning the grip was the scrap of blue silk she’d given him the other day.