A Knight's Reward Read online

  “Always later,” he grumbled.

  She sighed. If only she could explain the dangers to him. He could not possibly understand, for he was only a child. Moreover, she had done all she could to protect him from the horrors of the night Ryle cut her breast. And, God help her, from Ryle’s murderous threat.

  Reaching out, she picked up Sir Smug. After straightening the knight’s helm, she rose to standing, then handed him back to Ewan.

  Her son looked at her. His intense gaze clearly revealed he understood she wanted him to go back inside. He took Sir Smug. But, he didn’t budge.

  A frustrated scream welled inside her. “Ewan.” She set a firm hand upon his shoulder and steered him toward the doorway.

  Ewan struggled. “Nay! I will not go!”

  Light in the room shifted, telling Gisela that Dominic had left the window. She sensed his entry into her shop before booted footfalls sounded on the floorboards. Step by step, he came toward them with those bold, swaggered strides.

  Ewan’s struggles ceased. His face lit with curiosity as he glanced at Dominic.

  Gisela tensed. She braced herself for Dominic to urge her to let Ewan stay. Wasted words. She wouldn’t yield, no matter how persuasive Dominic might be. If her little boy were to stay safe, he must heed her. Being solely responsible for his welfare, she must follow through with her demand that he return inside the house; if she gave in now, she showed Ewan that by disobeying, he got his way. A very dangerous precedent. One day, his disobedience might get him killed.

  Ewan shrugged off her hold. “He has come to see my sword,” he said, raising his chin to look up at Dominic.

  An indulgent smile touched Dominic’s mouth. “Nay, little warrior. I have come to tell you to heed your mother.”

  Astonished warmth filled Gisela’s belly. Oh, Dominic.

  Ewan balled his hands and looked about to erupt in another temper tantrum.

  “Do not look so,” Dominic said gently, touching the little boy’s shoulder. “Your mother cares for you very much. If she wishes you to remain in the house, there is a reason for her order. You should obey.”

  “I do not want to.”

  “I know.” Dominic dropped to one knee, his garments whispering with the movement. Looking at Ewan, he said, “Sometimes mothers know things they cannot tell their children.”

  “Why not?” Ewan asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “Why can they not tell their children?”

  “Ah.” Dominic nodded. “An excellent question. Being a mother is a very important duty. Not every woman can be a mother, you know, for there are a great many tasks she must oversee. Most of all, she must do what she feels is best for her young one. Even if, at the time, she cannot tell her son why, and her son does not understand.”

  Gisela pressed her shaking hand to her mouth. She couldn’t have explained better herself.

  Ewan frowned.

  “Do you know how lucky you are to have such a caring mother?”

  Looking down at Sir Smug, the boy shook his head.

  “My mother died years ago. She was a very wise woman, just like your mother.” Dominic’s tone softened. “Every day, I miss her.”

  Ewan’s gaze moved slowly to Gisela.

  “Do as she has asked you,” Dominic said quietly.

  The little boy pouted. “But, I have not shown you my sword.”

  “I will be back to see you.” Dominic patted Ewan’s shoulder. Holding the boy’s gaze, he leaned close to his ear. “If you go now, without a fuss, I will tell you the story about the maiden and the dragon next time I visit.”

  “Tell me now!” Ewan said, his eyes bright.

  Dominic shook his head. “Now, you will obey your mother.”

  Ewan looked one last time at his knight, then up at Gisela. He turned and, with obedient steps, went back into the home.

  Dominic rose. His tender smile suggested he might enjoy being a father one day.

  Oh, Dominic, if only you knew . . .

  “Thank you,” Gisela murmured.

  He nodded, still staring at the doorway through which Ewan had disappeared. “He is a good child. He reminds me so much of myself, when I was young.”

  That is because there is much of you in him, a voice inside Gisela answered, rousing a new tangle of emotions. No matter how difficult it might be—no matter what obstacles her revelation might toss in her path toward freedom—she must tell him. He deserved to know.

  The moment stretched ahead of her in the quiet room. When his attention returned to her, she clasped her unsteady hands together.

  “Dominic,” she began, half-aware of voices outside in the street. One sounded familiar. Brusque, as gravelly as a table dragged across dirt, it carried over the tramp of approaching footfalls.

  Varden Crenardieu.

  “Aye, Sweet Daisy?” Dominic said.

  “—you men wait outside.” The voice, heavy with a French accent, came from just outside her shop door. Still, after several meetings with the rich merchant, his voice sent misgiving pooling inside her like icy water.

  Even more so, after Dominic’s tale about de Lanceau’s missing cloth.

  Her stomach twisted. What wretchedly bad timing for the French merchant to arrive while Dominic stood in her premises—almost directly over the silk stowed under the floorboards.

  Oh, God, if Crenardieu mentioned the commissioned garments . . .

  Her heart thudding against her ribs, she turned to face the doorway. A broad shadow blocked the embrasure before Crenardieu stepped inside. Tall as Dominic, his imposing stature was accentuated by a forest green cloak draping in shimmering folds from his shoulders to his ankles. Trimmed with black fur, the sleeves and hem glittered with gold embroidery clearly meant to flaunt his trade and his wealth. His black leather boots creaked as he walked.

  “Bonjour, Anne.” Glancing from her to Dominic, he strode farther into the room. The rings on his fingers glittered as he pushed his straight, blond hair back over his shoulder.

  “Good day,” she answered.

  “You are well this fine morning?”

  “Aye, thank you.”

  “And your son?”

  Every visit he asked after Ewan. How she loathed his interest in her little boy. It implied, somehow, that her son was important to him. Yet, she needed Crenardieu’s payment, so she must tolerate his unwelcome questions. Forcing a smile, she said, “He is well, thank you.”

  “Bon.” A curious smile touched the Frenchman’s mouth before his attention again shifted to Dominic. His gaze lingered and then trailed in a slow, deliberate perusal over Dominic’s body, all the way down to his boots. The scrutiny was so pointedly thorough, Gisela shuddered.

  “Bonjour to you, monsieur.” Varden’s pale fingers twitched, as if the glittering gemstone rings on his fingers had suddenly started to pinch. “I did not realize you were with a client, Anne. I apologize if I interrupted a negotiation.”

  “You did not,” Dominic said, before she could utter one word.

  “Ah. Bon.” The Frenchman’s smile broadened. “I do not believe we have met, monsieur—?”

  Stepping forward, smiling in return, Dominic extended his hand. “Dominic de Terre.”

  The Frenchman shook hands. “Varden Crenardieu.” Again, his gaze skimmed over Dominic in blatant appreciation. “C’est magnifique, your tunic. English wool, or Flemish?”

  “English.” Dominic chuckled. “I see you know your cloth.”

  “Oui.” Varden’s chest seemed to expand. He set his bejeweled fingers upon his waist, separating the edges of his cloak to reveal his embroidered gray tunic and hose beneath. “Cloth is my trade. Here in Moydenshire, no other man can match my supply of fabrics.”

  “Indeed.” His face alight with astonishment, Dominic raised his eyebrows. “Even Lord Geoffrey de Lanceau?”

  Wariness flashed in Crenardieu’s green eyes, but his smile didn’t waver. “From what I have heard, Lord de Lanceau runs a fine wool trade from Branton Keep. I hav
e also heard tales of the excellent silks he imports from the continent.” He shrugged. “Since I have never met him, or seen his selection of fabrics, I cannot say whether my stock matches his. Yet, I can assure you, monsieur, my goods are the finest from the Fairs of Champagne.”

  “I see,” Dominic murmured.

  “If you need a particular fabric, in a particular color, I can find it.”

  Gisela clasped her trembling hands so tightly, they turned numb. Crenardieu’s words were virtually an invitation for Dominic to mention his search for de Lanceau’s missing shipment.

  She had to divert the conversation. Quickly. Before one question led to another and the damning revelation of the silk in her shop.

  “’Tis fortuitous that we met this day,” Dominic said, “for I, too, am a merchant in need of cloth for one of my clients.”

  Crenardieu’s gaze brightened. His fingers twitched again, indicating he anticipated an exchange of coin.

  Sweat beaded between Gisela’s breasts. Now, Gisela!

  Clearing her throat, she drew Crenardieu’s attention. “Milord, I do not mean to interrupt, but may I fetch you a drink? Some mead, mayhap?”

  Crenardieu waved his bejeweled hand. “Non, merci. I intended to stop by only a moment.” He gestured to her worktable. “All goes well with the garments I commissioned?”

  Oh, God!

  She nodded, fighting the anxiety lancing through her. Did her panic show in her expression? Did Dominic sense her disquiet? She hoped not.

  “Bon,” Crenardieu said.

  Please, go, without asking any more questions. Please!

  The Frenchman glanced at Dominic before half-turning toward the open doorway. “Was there aught in particular you wished to discuss with me?”

  Naught! Gisela’s mind shrieked.

  Dominic’s head dipped in a determined nod. “I am looking to buy silk. Not any silk, mind, but the finest Eastern cloth. ’Tis of such wondrous quality, it feels like down against one’s skin.” He smiled. “Do you know where I can purchase some?”

  Chapter Seven

  Dominic carefully studied the Frenchman’s expression. He waited for some sign of deception, of a struggle to control a flare of surprise. The man’s eyelids did not even flicker with a hint of disquiet. Nor did his oily smile waver.

  Gisela, however, seemed to grow more pale. Why? Mayhap the disagreement with Ewan had upset her more than Dominic realized.

  Or, there was more to her dealings with Crenardieu than a simple commission. One not evident in her shop—not hanging from a peg on the wall, or spread out on the worktable. What was she sewing for him that he didn’t wish others to see? Undergarments?

  Laughter tickled Dominic’s throat. Rubbing his hand over his jaw, he managed to suppress the chuckle.

  “What color of silk do you require?” Crenardieu asked.

  “Blue. The hue of cornflowers. ’Tis the color of my client’s lover’s eyes.” Geoffrey’s lady wife’s eyes, actually, but Crenardieu didn’t need that tidbit of information.

  The Frenchman smoothed a crease from his cloak’s sleeve. “I do not have such cloth in my stock at the moment. However, I can make inquiries.”

  His bland tone implied he wouldn’t expend much time or effort searching. Disappointment ran like cold rainwater down Dominic’s spine. Still, he steeled himself against revealing his dismay to this merchant, who seemed as trustworthy as a ravenous snake. Glancing at his nails, Dominic said, “Never mind. Mayhap one of the other merchants in Clovebury will assist me.”

  The Frenchman’s lips flattened. “Monsieur de Terre, none have the suppliers or the resources that I do.”

  Dominic barely resisted a grin. As he suspected, the Frenchman didn’t wish to lose the potential sale. He wanted to know if Dominic could pay his price.

  “My client is very wealthy,” Dominic said. “He is most determined to have the blue silk.” With a lazy shrug, he added, “If I cannot find what I want here, I will go to London.”

  “As I said, I will make inquiries.” Crenardieu hesitated, one hand in the air, his fingers splayed in contemplative silence. “If I do find cornflower blue silk—”

  Dominic smiled. “I will be most grateful and in your debt. You may name your price, for I will pay it.”

  “How shall I contact you? Are you lodging in the town?”

  “Aye, at The Stubborn Mule Tavern.” Even as he spoke, Dominic tamped down unease. Crenardieu might send thugs to investigate him. However, ’twas a necessary risk, for he mustn’t give the Frenchman any reason to doubt he was a rich silk buyer. Crenardieu would expect a traveling merchant to lodge at the local tavern. “If I am not in my room,” Dominic added, “leave a message for me on the wooden board by the bar.”

  “Very well.” Crenardieu gave an elegant bow that indicated, in its effortlessness, the high circles the Frenchman frequented. “Good day to you both.”

  With a swirl of his cape, he walked out.

  Silence, marked by the dust motes floating in the streaming sunlight, settled in the shop. Even Ewan, inside the house, seemed to have gone quiet.

  Gisela stared at the doorway, her expression an odd blend of relief, regret, and . . . resignation.

  “A charming man,” Dominic said, not bothering to suppress his sarcasm.

  Gisela smoothed her hands over her gown. “A rich man,” she said quietly, “who has tremendous influence in Clovebury and throughout Moydenshire.”

  He also has influence over you, Sweet Daisy. The thought brought a surge of blazing jealousy—and protectiveness.

  “He is a client of yours?” Dominic asked.

  Her shoulders rose and fell on a sharp breath before she nodded stiffly. “He pays well. As I am certain you have noticed, there is a great deal Ewan and I need.”

  “You should want for naught,” Dominic growled, unable to keep the anger from his tone.

  Gisela stood very still. He sensed her drawing herself up, hardening her will against memories she loathed to share. “At one time,” she murmured, “I had all I ever wanted. I have tasted heaven, Dominic.” Her mouth trembled into a smile. “If that taste, however wondrous, is all I am given, then ’tis enough.”

  Tears glistened in her eyes. Sunlight fingered in through the window to play over her hair and the delicate curves of her face. How lovely, yet sad, she looked.

  Swallowing down an anguished groan, Dominic wondered when she had tasted such joy. With him? With the man she’d married but then had grown to fear? Had the bastard cherished her and manipulated her into loving him, and then crushed her?

  He could not abide such a thought.

  Their gazes locked. Her wide-eyed gaze shimmered. How beautiful she looked, proud, alone, caressed by the sunshine.

  Only a few spaces stood between them. Dominic stepped closer. He had to. He couldn’t resist the desire to touch her. He yearned to hold her in his arms and soothe the torment in her eyes.

  He reached for her, ignoring the twinge of his healing ribs, his hands splayed to slide around her waist. Her head tipped back, while her body swayed slightly, as though to accept his embrace. She looked up at him, her lips slightly parted. For a kiss.

  For a kiss!

  Blood pounded at his temple. His mouth flooded with the delicious, remembered taste of her. Gisela’s lips had opened like a flower bud beneath his. He had tasted her and drowned in her ambrosial perfection.

  Desire sprang hot in his groin. Gisela said she had no husband. However, if she’d run away, she remained bound to the man by law. She still belonged to the husband she feared.

  Step away! his conscience shouted. She is no longer yours to kiss. You did not marry her years ago, and now she is beyond your grasp.

  How he ached to press his lips to hers. To again taste her sweet essence. Need rushed like floodwater through his veins, so excruciatingly powerful . . .

  “Sweet Daisy,” he whispered.

  She inhaled a shivered breath. Beneath the golden veil of her lashes, her eyes darke
ned with yearning. Ah, God, she wanted his kiss. Wanted it as much as he!

  Dominic reached for her. Every muscle in his body anticipated her fragrant softness in his arms . . .

  Her hands shot up, her fingers splayed like spent petals about to drop to the ground.

  She denied him! Denied him!

  Fighting the surging heat inside him, he lowered his arms to his sides. “What—”

  A scuffling noise came from behind him. He hadn’t noticed the sound before. Yet, she had.

  Following her gaze, Dominic turned. Ewan stood in the doorway.

  “Mama, is that man gone?”

  Gisela’s head dipped in a jerky nod. With a swipe of her fingers, she dried her eyes and smiled at Ewan. Through months of practice, it seemed, she’d learned to hide her unhappiness from her son.

  “I am hungry.”

  As am I, a voice inside Dominic growled. Starved for my Sweet Daisy’s kiss.

  Gisela crossed to the little boy. “I will fetch you some bread and honey after my appointment with the blacksmith’s wife.”

  “The blacksmith’s wife?” Dominic ground out.

  Gisela’s eyes flared with surprise, no doubt because of his surly tone. She gestured to the garment draped over her worktable. “I promised to finish her gown this week. She is coming by for a fitting.”

  Footsteps crunched outside the doorway and then a woman walked in, her sturdy shoes rapping on the planks. Her face as brown and wrinkled as a dried apple, she smiled at Gisela. “’Allo.”

  Gisela smiled back. “Good day.”

  Go away, Apple Wench. Leave us to finish what we must say to one another.

  Biting down the words, Dominic said to Gisela. “I will take my leave and return at a more convenient time. I will see you anon.” He nodded to Ewan. “Little warrior.”

  The boy scowled at him. “You cannot go. You promised to tell me about the maiden and the dragon.”

  Dominic couldn’t resist a grin. “I did. And I shall, when I next see you.”

  He strode past the woman, now chatting to Gisela, and out into the dusty street. A horse-drawn cart rumbled by, its wooden wheels grinding up a cloud of dust. Waving it out of his face, he headed down the street toward the shops Gisela had led him past the other day.