A Knight's Reward (11 page)

Still giggling, she wiped the corners of her eyes with her fingers. “Dominic,” she murmured.

His gaze softened with tenderness. How devastating he looked in his refined garments, with the sun streaming over him. His clothes bespoke the privileged life into which he, as a lord’s son, had been born.

Years ago, her parents had bought her several exquisite gowns, not to please her, but to show off her breasts and slim waist in hopes of a proposal from one of their merchant associates. Ryle had bought her sumptuous finery. Now, such garments were so far beyond her means, she didn’t even dare remember the feather-light brush of silk against her bosom.

Her hand trembled. Hot, stinging tears moistened her eyes. The boundary between laughter and sadness seemed treacherously fragile, akin to the parchment-thin husk of a seedpod, dangerously close to splitting apart. Years of anguish, regret, and struggle—carefully buried in her heart—threatened to slip loose, to plant new roots in the banished reaches of her soul. To grow, once again, for the sun.

“Well? What do you think?” Dominic swept a hand to indicate his clothes.

She blinked hard, forcing the betraying tears aside, and smiled brightly at him. “Magnificent.”

Looking pleased, he smoothed the front of his tunic.

“Why are you dressed so?” she asked. “Or, should I say, since you are no longer an old and crippled peddler,
who
are you today?”

He laughed before executing a careful bow. “I am Dominic de Terre, a wealthy merchant, traveling south to the Port of London,” he said. “I am most eager to buy Eastern silks.” He winked. “Have any you would care to sell me?”

Her pulse lurched, just as a soft scrape sounded behind her. She turned to see Ewan lingering in the doorway to her home, holding Sir Smug to his chest. The toy knight’s head, covered by a gray woolen helm, stuck out above the little boy’s clasped hands, while his cloth- booted legs dangled against Ewan’s belly.

“Button.” Tilting her head, she ordered him back inside the house.

Standing firm, he shook his head. “I heard Dominic.” His gaze slid past her to the open shop window.

“He is Sir Dominic, to you,” she gently corrected.

“’Tis all right. He is a fellow warrior, so he does not need to call me ‘Sir,’” Dominic said with a chuckle, his voice rumbling from the window. “Good day, Ewan.”

“Good day.” Clutching Sir Smug tighter, the little boy stepped farther into the shop.

Gisela’s hand tightened. “Ewan, remember what I told you.”

His mouth tightened with stubbornness.

“Ewan,” she repeated.

“I found my sword,” he said, still looking at Dominic. His gaze slid back to Gisela. “I cannot find the bit of cloth you gave me, though. ’Tis gone.”

Aye, Button. Yesterday I burned it in the fire
.

“Do not worry. I will find you another.” She gestured to the house.

Her son’s gaze sparked with defiance. “That cloth was very soft. I liked the color. I want the same again, Mama. I like bl—”

“Button, go, as I asked you. If I must tell you one more time—”

While she meant to scold, her words emerged far sharper than she’d intended. His eyes widened. Regret dissolved her last words.

His chin quivered. Rebellion, though, still brightened his gaze. “I am tired of being indoors.”

Her heart squeezed. “I know, Button, but—”

“How long must I stay inside this house, Mama? Every day ’tis the same.” His voice broke on an angry sob. Squishing Sir Smug in his hands, he scowled, and then threw the toy on the floor. “I want to go home. I do not wish to see Father—he shouted too much—but I want to go back to the big house with the swing. There, I could run outside whenever I liked. There—” He stamped his foot with a frustrated cry.

How keenly she felt his frustrations. Turning from the window, Gisela went to him, crouched, and slid her arm around him.

Crossing his arms, he jerked away. He stood in profile, staring at the wall, his face set in a mutinous scowl. Tears glistened along his eyelashes.

Oh, Button. You have never drawn away from me before.

The fragile part of her wept. Her little boy was growing. Changing. Testing her, it seemed, in front of Dominic. Pressing her lips together, she steeled her fortitude. Focused on the courage and instinct that kept him safe.

Never could she forget those.

Aware of Dominic’s gaze upon them, she rubbed Ewan’s back, a soothing habit he’d enjoyed since he was a baby. “Right now, you must go inside our home, as I bade. Later, we will speak of what troubles you.”

“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 have 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!