Despite her best efforts, a stunned breath burst from her. "What?"
"I will collect the items from you before dawn, along with the remaining silk. Oui?"
Her stunned mind scrambled to form a reply.
"A regrettable change in plan. Yet, 'tis so."
She fought the angry panic heating her face. Forcing a civil tone, she said, "You know I cannot work on your commission during the day. You told me not to. You swore me to secrecy, although you have not explained why that must be so."
A dark flicker sharpened the Frenchman's gaze. For an instant, she regretted daring to toss out the challenge. Yet, it had slipped out before she could smother it. "'Tis not necessary for you to know. Your task is to create the gown, with the fine skill for which you are known."
His flattery only deepened her unease. How she longed to ask if the silk was stolen—to have an answer to the question gnawing at her conscience. However, to do so might jeopardize her dealings with him. If he resented her suspicion, he might take away the unfinished garments, and the money he'd promised would be lost.
"Tsk-tsk! Do not look at me so, Anne—as though I ask you to commit some kind of crime. 'Twould be a shame to spoil my customer's surprise for his mistress, oui, if word got out about the commission?"
"True," Gisela answered, even as a chill wove through her. "Did your client ask for the garments to be finished sooner?"
The Frenchman's head dipped in the barest nod.
"Mayhap if you explain to him that to do my best work, I need until next week—"
Crenardieu shrugged, his luxurious cloak whispering with the movement. "I did not foresee a problem. If you cannot complete the garments—"
I will find someone else to do the work, and you will not receive payment, her mind finished for her. "I will do as you ask."
"Good." His smile thinned. "I would hate for the wrong people to learn you are unreliable. Or," he said quietly, "exactly where you are."
His words pummeled her like chunks of melting ice. A tremor shook her, so powerful, she almost keeled into the wall.
Placing her palm against the stone, she used its strength to fortify her. She struggled for calm. "What do you mean?"
Another grin, deliberate and cold. "Come now, Anne."
His emphasis on her false name sent fear screaming through her. Oh, God. Oh, God. Did he know her true identity?
If he knew . . . who else did?
Desperation tightened her breathing. She barely restrained the urge to whirl, grab Ewan's hand, and run. However, the willful, wounded part of her bared its teeth in defiance. She had done all this man asked of her. She didn't deserve his goading. She'd not cower to his bullying, especially in front of an audience that, she noted, was watching their exchange with expressions of both amusement and outright curiosity.
Crenardieu might have no idea who she really was. He might be testing her, to gauge her reaction, because he'd heard a rumor from one of his associates.
Pretend you do not know what he is talking about. Bluff through it. You can do it, Gisela.
By sheer strength of will, she managed a puzzled smile. "Your words confuse me. You know my name is Anne."
"Aye." Cruel humor glittered in his eyes. "'But, is it your real name?"
Ewan tugged at the back of her cloak. "Mama! Your name is—"
She spun. "Ewan," she snapped, so fiercely, his eyes widened with shock. She wept inside at the hurt in his eyes, as well as the crushing dread she could scarcely contain. When she turned back to face the Frenchman, she squeezed her son's hand. Later, she'd apologize for shouting at him. At this moment, she needed her verbal claws to protect them both.
Looking Crenardieu straight in the eye, she said, "Please say what it is you wish of me. Otherwise, I ask that you let me be on my way, so I can finish your commission."
Admiration lit his gaze before he glanced away. "Those of us in the cloth trade know each other well. Those connections are an important part of our business." He adjusted one of his gemstone rings. "'Tis well known Ryle Balewyne is looking for his runaway wife and son." Crenardieu's gaze locked with hers. "For you."
She tried to force a denial between her teeth. But, she couldn't get a sound past the fear jamming her throat.
"Do not fail me," the Frenchman said as he turned away. "Two days, Gisela."
The scent of dried grasses filled Dominic's nostrils. Ahh. He lay in a summer meadow, his cheek tickled by the greenery, his body cocooned in a breeze alive with the buzz of a happy insect. God's holy fingernails, but he was drunk with the pleasure of the meadow . . .
The drone intensified. Something landed on his arm. Pinched.
"Ow!" Dominic's head snapped up. The meadow swam. A merciless ache crashed against his forehead, a sensation akin to being whacked by a board. Groaning, he fell back to the ground.
Nay, 'twas not the ground.
He cracked open his bleary eyes as his befuddled senses began to sharpen. He lay in the small, dingy room in The Stubborn Mule Tavern. A fly—which disappeared through the ill-fitting shutters at the window—had just bitten his forearm. He lay flat on his belly, his fine mantle squashed into a makeshift pillow, his hands curled into the musty-smelling pallet that served as his bed. He sprawled like a drunkard who'd collapsed after a night of overindulgence.
Dominic groaned, his stomach protesting every slight movement. God's teeth, he was a drunkard!
Drunk as a brandy-soaked pudding.
Yet, the contents of his belly felt like curdled custard—and equally as volatile.
Unable to restrain another groan, he pressed his palms flat against the pallet. It rustled as he slowly sat up, the events of the previous night filtering into his foggy mind. How many drinks had he bought Crenardieu? Seven? Ten? The obnoxious Frenchman, who'd grinned at the barmaid each time she'd strolled by, drank like a leaky keg and never seemed to get addled. Nor had he revealed any good information. Horribly disappointing, when the whole point of imbibing in the first place was to loosen the man's tongue and wrest details from him.
Especially what Crenardieu knew about Gisela.
Gisela. A smile softened Dominic's frown. How he longed to see her. Needed to. The keen ache, always more intense when he'd had too much to drink and his mind wandered to "what ifs" and "what might have been," resonated in his soul.
That torment was the reason he had imagined himself in a meadow, no doubt.
Dominic swiped at straw dangling in his eyes, then brushed off his wrinkled tunic. Once he got to his feet, he'd go see Gisela. An excellent plan. The best plan he'd devised since . . . Never mind.
Rubbing his throbbing brow, he steeled himself to stand. He would walk to her home. Step by step. One boot in front of the other. Simple.
With an awkward shove, he rose, careening three steps sideways and almost tripping over his saddlebag. He barely avoided the ink pot and quill on the floor, left out from when he had penned Geoffrey a quick missive. Dominic steadied his balance. A belch erupted from down in his belly. God's knees! That explosion of sound would bring the tavern's rafters crashing down on him. He might need more bandaging from Gisela.
Hmm. Not an entirely unpleasant prospect.
Just thinking of her warm, gentle hands moving over him again . . .
Behave, Dominic.
He sucked in a breath, shuddering when the linen bandages he still wore tickled his skin. After rubbing his hands over his face, he attempted to smooth his hair. It felt like a rat's nest. He had not been in such a state since Geoffrey and Lady Elizabeth's wedding celebrations. However long ago that was.
Squaring his shoulders, he fixed his gaze on the doorway and started toward it. Thud, thud, went his boots. Gurgle, gurgle, answered his gut. At least he was moving forward, even if not in an entirely straight line.
He stepped out into the shadowed hallway, made his way down the creaky staircase—bypassing slumbering drunkards and empty ale mugs—and walked out into the tavern yard. He squinted against the bright ligh
t. The tavern was quiet now, slumbering like a blowsy strumpet, very different from last eve when the revelry had tumbled out through the open door.
Filling his lungs with fresh air, he headed into the alley and toward Gisela's shop, stopping on the way to buy a pastry from a street vendor. He ate while he walked. A good idea, to eat. His belly felt more stable already. The fog cleared from his mind.
His steps lightened when he entered the street near Gisela's premises. Anticipation glowed inside him, for soon he'd see her lovely face tinged pink with a blush. The graceful sweep of her hair he longed to touch. The proud, yet beautiful, tilt of her chin.
Brushing stray crumbs from his tunic, he glanced toward her shop.
Closed.
He came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the street, wobbling a moment. A young boy pulling a small cartload of firewood grumbled under his breath and veered past, as did the mongrel at the lad's heels.
Misgiving lanced through Dominic, tainting his excitement with a sense of dread. He shrugged the unease away. No doubt there was a reasonable explanation for Gisela's shop being shut. Mayhap she had gone to meet with a client.
Mayhap Ewan was ill.
Mayhap Gisela was unwell. He'd sensed something was amiss last evening. She might not have wanted him to know of her ailment because she realized he would insist on staying to care for her. Thus, he wouldn't be able to pursue his mission for Geoffrey.
Dominic sighed. Even after years apart, she knew him well. He would, indeed, have stayed. He'd always loved her stubborn, independent streak, but if he didn't look after her, who would?
Even before he willed his body into motion, he was striding toward the building. He fought the urge to slam his shoulder into the door and break it from his hinges. Hardly the way to impress Gisela. Not wise, either, considering his healing ribs. Moreover, the rash act would attract attention from passersby, who would view him as a dragon rather than a protector; he did not care for another round of local justice.
Curling his hand into a fist, he knocked three times.
A muffled oath came from within, followed by the scrape of furniture across the floor.
"Who is there?" Gisela called from inside.
He smiled, his anticipation burning anew. "Dominic."
Another oath. Had she really said "Oh, my God!" with utter horror? She'd speak that way about a poisonous, five-headed snake.
"I . . . Um . . . Just a moment," she called.
He frowned. "Are you well?"
"Aye!" she said, before he had finished speaking. Through the door, her voice sounded breathless. As though he'd caught her in a clandestine act.
His frown deepened. Curiosity nagged, turning his excitement into suspicion. He had no right to know . . . but what was she doing in there?
Pressing his fingers to the rough wooden panel, he tipped his head close to hear. Impossible, with the horse-drawn wagon rattling by.
He remembered the first time he'd visited her shop, how she'd sat at her sewing table, sunlight illuminating her face, her expression one of intense concentration while she smoothed out the gown. The image distorted. He saw her standing back against the table, hands splayed in crushed fabric while her body arched up to meet her lover's hungry kiss. As her eyes closed and her head tilted back in rapture, the man pushed down her gown to reveal her breasts' luscious swell.
Thumping noises came from inside the shop. Then, more scraping.
Dominic's fingers curled against the door. The wood, weathered to a browny-gray hue, mocked him with its solid blankness. He saw no crack, no broken knot, through which he could peer in and see what was transpiring.
The urge to break down the panel roared again. Nay. She was probably with a female client who needed to try on a garment for fitting. That explained the closed shop and Gisela's delay in letting him in.
She would not be with a lover.
He willed himself to be patient.
Forget patience!
He pummeled the door again. "Open up, G— " Careful, Dominic, you idiot! "Anne."
Inside, the bolts on the door slid back. The lock clicked, and the panel creaked open. Gisela leaned into the small space between the door and the embrasure. Wispy hair poked out from her loosened braid. How he longed to tuck those strands back into place. To touch, just for a moment, the silk of her tresses and her cheek's soft curve.
A flush stained her face. "Dominic."
"Aye."
Her slender hand flitted over her bodice, a nervous gesture that encouraged his gaze to skim down to her bosom.
Relief shivered through him. Her breasts were neatly restrained within her gown. The same one, he remembered, she'd worn yester eve. As he became fully attuned to her presence, he noted shadows under her eyes and the weariness lining her features.
"You look tired."
She straightened, pushing her shoulders back. He tried not to notice the tempting thrust of her bosom. "I am fine." Arching an eyebrow, she said, "You look like you slept in your clothes."
He followed her gaze to his creased tunic. "Actually, I did." Bestowing upon her his most charming grin, he said, "May I come in? I will tell you of my night drinking at the tavern."
Dismay flitted over her face. She blinked and seemed to gather her composure. "I . . . I am sorry, Dominic. 'Tis not convenient. Mayhap you could come back later?"
Her apology sounded most gracious. Behind her encouraging smile, however, he sensed desperation.
She wished he would be on his way.
Why?
Pretending he had an entire day to dawdle, he shrugged. He toed a stone with his boot. "I did not realize you were with a client."
"I am not."
"Your shop is shut." He paused before adding, "I was worried. I thought you or Ewan might be ill."
Nodding, she gnawed on her bottom lip. Dominic let the moment drag. Tilting his head to one side, he looked at her, coaxing her to elaborate.
She averted her gaze. Then, after a long moment, she said, "I needed to catch up on my work today. The noises from the street are a distraction, and—"
Still talking, she removed her hand from the door to finger aside her hair.
The perfect opportunity.
He stepped forward. Shoved the panel. It swung inward, hit the wall, and bounced on its hinges.
"Dominic!"
He brushed past Gisela, his gaze scanning the room's interior. Candles flickered on the worktable. He noted sewing implements scattered on the table's surface. A half-finished chemise. The wooden stool, pushed to one side.
Scowling, he spun to glance behind the door. No one else occupied the room. Not even Ewan.
"All that scraping and thumping . . ." he said under his breath.
"Why did you barge in?" Gisela demanded behind him. "I told you 'twas not convenient."
He turned to meet her flashing blue gaze. She stood with her hands on her hips and her chin thrust forward. She looked so indignant, he almost bent at the waist in a gallant apology.
"I had to be certain you were not in danger." Thank God his drink-hazed brain didn't fail him. "For all I knew, someone stood behind you, threatening your life."
"Why would you assume that?"
Ah. A very good question. The thumping and scraping sounds were likely caused when she moved the wooden stool across the planks. What other explanation could there be for the noises?
Dominic scrambled for an answer that didn't make him look a complete fool. "You told me yourself that thugs are preying on shopkeepers in this town. They might have been robbing you of your cloth, and any other items they could sell elsewhere."
Her gaze softened. "True."
"I had to be certain, Gisela," he said more gently. "I would never forgive myself, Sweet Daisy, if aught terrible happened to you that I could have prevented."
A heart-wrenching expression shadowed her features. Misgiving? Regret? Mayhap both of these, blended with stubborn resolve. For a moment she looked desperately . . . alone.
Only once before had she looked at him so: that blue-skied summer day he'd said good-bye. He'd embraced her, kissed her with all the love in his soul, and said he'd never forget her. She'd stood in the daisy-strewn meadow, the breeze tangling her hair, her face wet with tears. Still, silent, she'd watched while he turned and strode away.
Dominic hadn't looked back—even when her sobs had threatened to bring him falling to his knees. He couldn't bear for her to see him weep or sense the pain splintering his soul. For all the joy she'd given him, he had let her go, to find another man and fall in love again. He could promise her naught when leaving on crusade. She deserved a good marriage. To be happy. Cherished.
The anguish of their parting cut through him again. He longed to slide his arms around her, to draw her close, to comfort her with the warmth of their touching bodies. How alive he'd felt when they embraced.
Would she let him hold her? Just this once? "Gisela . . ."
Her name broke from him in a rough plea. She drew a shaky breath, as though the emotion in his voice grazed a wound inside her.
Shaking her head, she stepped away. Again, she wore her invisible shield, enforcing an emotional wall between them. "Please, Dominic. I did not lie when I said I had much work to do." She gestured to her worktable. "The blacksmith's wife liked her gown so much, she asked me to sew her a new chemise."
He nodded, trying hard to dismiss his disappointment. His gaze slid to the chemise, awaiting her skilled attentions. As much as he yearned to touch, taste, and feel her again, he must respect their lives were very different. Very . . . separate. They both had commitments other than the love they'd once shared.
"I will return later, as you suggested."
"Ewan is with Ada today. He would like to see you, as well. If you return by early evening, we can eat together."
"I would like that." He winked. "I shall have to remember more stories about dragons."
A smile touched her mouth. "Until this evening, then." While she spoke, she turned to face the open doorway, encouraging him, with her body language, to leave.
"Until this evening."
Gisela pushed the door closed, secured it, and leaned her brow against the wood. A tremor jarred through her. How close Dominic had come to discovering her deception. She'd managed to stow the silk in the hidden cavity and replace the panels, but only just.
Knights of Valor Page 40