A Knight's Reward (21 page)

“Will you please tell me where we are going?” Gisela said, a catch in her voice.

“Just up here.” The stone wall running along the roadside—a remnant of ancient Roman conquerors—disintegrated a few yards on. A passing cart, veering out of control, must have careened into it, leaving behind a gaping hole. Crumbled rocks trailed into the wildflowers and weeds growing alongside, as though the stones tried to bury themselves again in the earth, to return to familiar ground, rather than risk being mortared back into the wall.

Turning his body sideways, he stepped through the jagged opening into the meadow that led down to the riverbank. Facing Gisela, he extended his hand to help her. She looked at his outstretched fingers, an expression of both longing and determination tightening her features, before she braced her slender hands upon the crumbled stone and eased herself through.

Dominic snuffed a sting of disappointment that she did not allow him to assist her, then turned on his heel and started across the meadow. Shadows, lightened here and there by patches of fading sunshine, flowed like gray cloth across the grasses and wildflowers. Greenery crunched beneath his boots, stirring up hidden creatures—not vibrant butterflies or giddy bumblebees, but small, buzzing insects.

Behind him, he heard the whisper of grasses brushing against her cloak, accompanied by her footsteps. Years ago, she’d followed him so, her strides lazy and coy, her smile as bright as spring sunlight. Now . . .

He glanced over his shoulder. A pensive frown on her face, she scanned the slow-moving river, the wooden bridge spanning the banks farther down, the trees and cottages on the opposite bank. She rubbed her arms, as if to warm herself.

“Head for that tree. ’Tis shielded from the road.” Dominic gestured to the ancient willow gilded in the orange hues of sunset.

Gisela followed him beneath the broad, spreading branches. She stood in the shadows, looking down at the tangled tracery of roots, as though there lay the answer to her dilemma.

At last, the moment had come. The moment he got his answers. Anticipation ate at him, creating an uncomfortable ache in his gut.

He waited until she looked up at him, then raised his cuff to reveal the silk encircling his wrist like a bracelet. The edges of the fabric were not frayed; this indicated the scrap wasn’t torn from a larger piece of cloth, but neatly cut. Only well-sharpened shears left such a neat edge.

“How did Ewan come by this blue silk, Gisela?”

“I guess he . . . picked it up.”

“He said you gave it to him.”

Gnawing her lip, she shook her head. “I did not. He must have taken it from the pile of scraps on my shop floor. I did not notice.” Self-condemnation crept into her gaze. “I should have. I should have expected him to sneak some of the cloth for his sword.”

“You know the whereabouts of the stolen silk.”

After a long moment, she nodded. “Some of it.”

“’Tis hidden close to your home?”

“Under the floor of my shop.”

“God’s teeth!” No wonder the planks had sounded odd in places. But, he’d assumed ’twas due to wearing of the floorboards and the building’s poor construction.

“When he first gave me the bolts of silk, he told me to keep them hidden to protect them from thieves. He reminded me of the many break-ins over the past few months.”

“He,” Dominic repeated. “You mean Crenardieu.”

“Aye.”

French snake!
“How did you come to know him?”

She folded her hands, her fingers moving in a restless pattern as though trying to escape confinement. “One morning, he came to my shop. He said he had heard of my fine work and asked me to make some garments for him. I agreed. I had no reason to decline.” She paused. “Then, one evening, he returned with two bolts of blue silk.”

“I
knew
he was involved with the stolen shipment,” Dominic growled. “Something about his manner—”

“I did not know at first that the cloth was stolen,” she said, words rushing from her lips. “I thought he had bought the fabric for a wealthy client. With his connections, he could buy any cloth he wanted.”

“True,” Dominic said, “yet surely you were suspicious. Silk is rare and costly.”

“Indeed, when I heard of the stolen silks, I had my suspicions, but I kept them to myself. I did not want him to know I distrusted him. I did not want to lose . . .” Her voice trailed off before she looked across the meadow. Her fingers moved with a more frantic rhythm.

“Lose what?” Dominic demanded. “His confidence? His patronage?”

“Nay.” Her lovely face tautened. “His payment.”

An exasperated cry tore up from Dominic’s gut. “Payment!” She had betrayed him out of
greed?

Shocked fury threatened to overrule his rational grasp of the situation. While her admission sank into his consciousness, his heart rebelled. Avarice hadn’t blemished her soul years ago. Surely her moral fortitude hadn’t changed so much, especially when she was responsible for raising a child.

Moreover, the humble residence she called home and her worn garments contradicted all impressions of a greedy woman who spent every coin she earned.

“I know what you are thinking,” she said, her voice cutting his thoughts like shears. “You believe I acted upon greed.”

“That is, indeed, what I thought.”

Gisela’s body went rigid. His words clearly hurt her. “I
needed
his money, Dominic. From the first day Ewan and I arrived in Clovebury, I hoarded my income. Coin by wretched coin. Not an easy task, when I earned so little, but I had promised . . .”

Her words broke on a sob. He resisted the urge to reach out and touch her arm.

“Promised what?”

She thrust her shoulders back. He glimpsed rage in the watery gleam of her eyes. “—to keep Ewan safe. To do whatever I must to protect him.”

The discomfort in Dominic’s belly did an awful twist. “I . . . see.”

“Do you?” Her tear-soaked gaze fixed on him. “How can you possibly understand? You, with your fine clothes, coin to splurge on your every whim, and the friendship of a powerful lord. You want for
naught
.”

The desperate fury in her voice flayed so deep, he almost flinched.
Aye, Sweet Daisy, I did want. I wanted you. Always, you.

He opened his mouth to speak, but she slashed the air with her arm, ordering him to silence. “You saw what my husband did to me,” she said in a fierce whisper. “The night he cut me, I made a vow. I swore I would
die
before I let him hurt me again.” She shook with the effort of her words. “Never would I let him kill Ewan.”

“
What?
” Dominic choked out. “Kill . . . Ewan?” Horror made him stagger back a step. “Why—”

Touching anguish shadowed her gaze. She looked at him as she had long ago, with a bittersweet tenderness. “Ryle wanted to hurt me. To wound me . . . in the worst possible way.” She shook so fiercely, she looked about to topple over. Dominic caught her elbow and guided her back toward the tree. With a shuddered sigh, she leaned against the trunk.

When her head tilted back, her hair slipped in a golden ribbon over her bosom. Her chest lifted and fell on a tortured breath, and he fought the need to stare at her right breast, its grim scar concealed by her gown. How he longed to know every detail of the night Ryle disfigured her.

“Gisela, why would your husband wish to kill his own child?”

Her lips formed a sad smile. “He was jealous.”

Dominic frowned. “Of the child?”

“Aye. Of the affection I showed Ewan. Of the wonderful, pure love . . . from which he was conceived.”

Her soft voice and the shadowed atmosphere tugged him into the realm of long ago. He forced the recollections away, saying, “There were difficulties in your marriage, then, after you gave birth to Ewan.”

Her expression hardened. “There were difficulties before. Ryle. He . . .” Her lips pressed together, suggesting her next words were difficult.

“’Tis all right. You can tell me,” Dominic coaxed.

“He was . . .”

“A monster,” Dominic said.

She nodded, strands of her hair catching in the bark and glinting in a stream of sunlight. “He also was . . . impotent.”

Dominic’s hand, half-raised to tug her tresses free, froze. “Impotent.”

Her eyes wet with tears, she nodded again.

Dominic’s frown intensified. How could her husband be impotent? He got her with child. She’d birthed his son. Mayhap she mistook the word “impotent” for another, such as “intolerant” or “impatient”? “Gisela,” he said most gently, “impotent means he could not . . .”—he cleared the awkward catch from his throat—“sire a child.”

“I know.” She blinked, her long lashes sweeping down over her eyes before their brilliant blue held his gaze again.

How intently she stared at him—a look that implied her words had monumental significance. An odd sensation tingled through Dominic, an inkling that she kept knowledge just beyond his comprehension.

He exhaled an unsteady breath. “Let me be certain I understand. Your former husband could not . . . You and he did not—”

“Couple,” she said.

“Not once?” he blurted, before he could stop himself.

A flush stained her face. “Not once.”

“Not even on your wedding night?”

“Not even then,” she said quietly. “He tried.” A shudder racked her, before she stared down at the ground. “He could not manage to . . . That is, his manhood would not . . .”

“Swell?” Dominic said.

Her face turned scarlet. “Not like yours.”

Not like yours
. Heat flamed in his groin while his delighted mind registered what she’d revealed in those three words. She remembered his body. Recalled the pleasure between them, and the intensity of his desire for her.

He cleared his throat again. “Ah.” When had his wits evaporated like a puddle on a summer’s day? She seduced him with memories, but she still hadn’t provided him with answers. Giving himself a strong mental shake, he said, “’Tis still not clear to me, Gisela. If your husband did not couple with you, how did you get with child?”

He waited for her response, tension cresting inside him. Gisela had become pregnant by having an affair. Married to a man who couldn’t pleasure her, she’d deceived him, which would explain his vicious treatment of her.

A tiny smile curved her mouth. Her expression seemed to say,
Still, Dominic, you cannot guess? The answer is very simple
.

Suddenly, the answer materialized in his mind. The shock of it slammed through him, seemed to shake the roots beneath his feet.

“Ewan—” he said hoarsely.

“Aye, Dominic. He is your son.”

Chapter Thirteen

Gisela waited, hardly daring to breathe, while her revelation settled between her and Dominic like dust blown off years of secrecy. He stood frozen, a myriad of expressions playing over his angular features, among them astonishment, disbelief, and . . . wariness.

“Ewan is my son,” he repeated, each word spoken with great care.

“He is.”

Dominic’s mouth flattened. “Are you certain?”

Part of her had expected such a question. “There is no doubt.”

“None at all?”

She shook her head, trying hard to quell the buried love threatening to spill over from her soul and run down her face in a deluge of tears. “You are the only man I lay with, Dominic. There was no other.”
Because, Dominic, no matter what happens in the coming days, you are the only man I will ever love. You always will be
.

He still looked wary. Anger glinted in his eyes. “In all the days we have been together, you never once mentioned this to me?”

She’d expected this question, too, and the painful guilt that followed. “To be honest, I was unsure . . . how to tell you.”
Or, truth be told, how you would react to my disclosure
.

He raised an eyebrow.

“I could not very well say at the table the other evening, ‘Guess what? Ewan is your child.’ Could I?”

Dominic laughed, but the sound held no mirth. “You could have found a moment to tell me.”

“I wanted to.” Misery tightened her voice. “I promised myself I would, but only when I could speak with you alone.”

“Ewan does not know?”

“Not yet.”

Dominic studied her a long moment, and she guessed he was mulling the truth of her words. “When did you realize you carried a child?” he asked.

Our child
, her mind cried.
Our son, Dominic. The proof of our love
.

“I knew several sennights after you left.” She swallowed hard. “Oh, Dominic, how desperately I wanted to share my news with you. Not because I expected compensation of any kind,” she added quickly. “When I lay with you, I knew full well I might conceive. Yet, I vowed if I were gifted with your babe, I would care for it. Love it. Cherish it.” She hesitated, forcing herself to continue. “To know I would bear your daughter or son . . . ’Twas both exciting and very frightening. Even though we had said good-bye, and you had no doubt left for crusade, I journeyed to your father’s keep. I could not bear . . . not to.”

Memories of that difficult, painful visit whispered anew in her mind.

“Go on,” Dominic said.

“At first, the guards refused to heed me. They said you no longer lived there and ordered me away. When I begged them,”—she bit down on her lip—”they sent a messenger into the keep. Moments later, I was escorted into the great hall, where a woman greeted me. She said she was your stepmother.”

Dominic’s expression darkened. “A scheming bitch.”

Gisela recalled the young lady’s austere beauty and smug gaze. “She asked me what I wanted. When I told her I wished to contact you, she smiled. ‘You must be Gisela,’ she said. I was surprised, for I did not realize she knew of me . . . and then I . . . could not help myself. I burst into tears. After I confided in her,”—Gisela drew a shaky breath—”she said there was no way to send you a message. Even if there were, I should rid myself of your bastard and forget about you, because . . .”

Oh, how the remembered words hurt! Like daggers, each one.