A faint smile tilted Dominic's lips. "Good. Otherwise, I would be very disappointed in you."
Gisela smiled back. Warmth spread within her, akin to a flower unfolding and reaching for the sky. How she loved Dominic's wry humor. How she loved . . . him.
Tell him now, Gisela. Tell him what he deserves to know. Before you lose your courage. Before Ewan scampers through the doorway.
Drawing a trembling breath, she said, "Dominic, you were right about a secret. One I have kept from you far too long. I shall deny you the truth no longer."
A sigh broke from Dominic, a sound expressing the relief whooshing through him. At last, Gisela confided in him. 'Twas best she reached this decision on her own, rather than him having to coerce her.
Letting his hands fall to his sides, he stepped closer. "Thank you, Gisela, for trusting me."
She gave a jerky nod, causing her hair to shift about her shoulders. He remembered the brush of her tresses against his hands. The way, years ago, she had looked up at him, her blue eyes shining with limitless love and trust.
When she looked at him now, he saw wariness in her gaze, as well as haunting shadows of anguish. Whatever she was about to tell him was difficult for her.
Silence spread through the shop like a thick blanket. "'Tis about Crenardieu," he gently pressed.
"Um . . . Nay."
He frowned. "What do you mean, nay?"
Her lashes dropped a fraction, veiling the spark of her eyes. "Crenardieu has no part in what I must . . ."—she shivered and clasped her hands—"what I will tell you."
Disbelief weighed like a stone in Dominic's gut. He'd been so sure about her revelation. His gut instinct screamed that she had information about the missing silks and that Crenardieu was responsible for stealing Geoffrey's shipment.
His frown deepened, for Gisela's hands were quivering. An awkward giggle escaped her. "Now the moment is upon me, I do not know how to begin."
Her wobbly voice melted some of his irritation. Glaring at her was hardly the way to encourage her to share what she knew. He must assure her, with words and comforting gestures, that he wouldn't cast judgment upon what she told him. "Why not start with how you came to bear this knowledge?"
She blinked, tears sparkling along her lower lashes. "Bear this knowledge," she repeated softly with another laugh. "Oh, God."
Her shrill tone grated on his nerves. Patience, Dominic. Setting his hands on his hips, he studied her, barely resisting the urge to place his hands upon her shoulders and persuade her with a caress.
After inhaling a tremulous breath, she said, "'Tis about . . . us."
"Us," he repeated. Confusion tangled with a wild, yearning anticipation. Memories flooded into his mind, careening one over another.
"What happened between you and . . . me years ago."
He squinted at her. "'Tis not about the silk?"
"Silk!" Her face whitened. "Why would you think that I—"
"Why would I not? Every thread of information I have discovered so far leads me to Crenardieu. And, Sweet Daisy, to you."
"Me?" Her breathless whisper seemed to hover in the room.
"Aye. You."
Her hand fluttered to her throat. Her lips parted. She clearly intended to refute him, but no sound emerged. Not even the faintest, choked protest.
Anxiety widened her watery eyes. Then, her gaze sharpened with determination. She whirled and marched to the door, her hair swaying to and fro against her back.
He scowled at her. "Gisela!"
She flinched, but didn't halt or glance back at him.
"Do not run from me." He stormed after her.
"Run? Why should I?" she shot back. "Show me the louts who are spying on me. Ask them about the accursed silk. They will know far more than I."
He might have believed her, except she was now shaking from head to toe. And her voice . . . Her desperation revealed all. Her will might be strong, but her body betrayed her.
Gisela grabbed the door handle. Yanked the panel open.
Striding up behind her, he clamped his hand over hers. He shoved the door closed with a firm click.
She stood very still, clearly frozen by the subtle but meaningful show of force, her breathing coming in uneven gasps. Pressed lightly against her back, he felt each inhalation and shudder. She stared at his hand covering hers as though unable to tear her gaze away.
Dominic couldn't help but spread his fingers wider upon her skin, to touch more of her. To feel her. He wanted to groan aloud with the pleasure of touching her.
She swallowed. As he looked at her taut profile, the petal-smooth column of her neck begged for his kiss. His gaze moved down, to her tantalizing cleavage at the top of her bodice, and he fought his own shudder. Ah, God, he couldn't help but stare.
He hauled his focus back to her face—the delicate line of her jaw, her rose-pink mouth, her smooth cheek . . . perfection in each curve. No well-bred noblewoman's profile could be more exquisite.
"Crenardieu's men—" she said in a strained whisper.
"I do not wish to ask them," he said just as softly. "I wish to ask you."
As I wish to feel you. Taste you. Kiss you.
He inhaled, drawing in the essence of her. Warmth, sunlight . . . Completion. Closing his eyes, he let the scent of her wash through him. Like the summer sun, her being burned through the tangle of his restraint. Singed him with a need. He pressed closer. His torso brushed her back. His groin nudged her bottom.
Ah, God! To touch you like this, after so very long!
"Dominic," she gasped. Her spine arched, an attempt to sever the intimate contact. Yet, the movement forced her supple body to glide against his, fluid and tantalizing, like sunlight skimming over water.
Intense, consuming heat flooded through him, focusing where their bodies touched. He could hardly breathe. He stared down at the crown of her head, mesmerized by her shining gold hair that led his gaze down, again, to her bosom.
How perfect her breasts had felt in his palm. Warm. Ripe.
He dipped his head and kissed her hair.
A sigh wrenched from her. "Stop."
"Why?"
"Please." No more than a whisper, ragged with anguish and . . . desire.
Dominic clamped his jaw against the voices inside his head urging him to heed her plea. She was married. Forbidden. Yet, she herself had denied any commitment to her husband, and Dominic must know what she kept from him. Chivalry had its place in the ways between men and women, but he'd been patient long enough.
He removed his hand covering hers. How he missed her skin's warmth—but only for a moment. When she uncurled her fingers and they slipped from the door handle, he placed his hands upon the curve of her hips. Her gown's coarse fabric—very different from the clothes she'd worn in the meadow that summer—grazed his palms.
Anticipation rippled through him. I care not that you are dressed in commoner's garb. I know the delicate silk of your naked skin. I have caressed it. Tasted it. Kissed the sun-warmed patch below your—
"Nay!" she cried, as if attuned to his wanton cravings. She twisted in his hold, darting sideways faster than he imagined possible.
Her hands curled at her sides, she stood several steps away. Her eyes glittered, not with fury, but passion.
"Come back, Gisela," he whispered.
"Do not touch me again." A sobbed plea.
A lie.
"I must," he answered, closing the space between them. "No longer can I deny myself."
She stepped backward. "Nay! To touch me—"
"—'Tis all I have wanted to do since I first saw you in the stable."
"'Tis dangerous! I will not allow you."
"Aye, Gisela, you will." He closed the last paces separating them.
The backs of her thighs hit the sewing table. She flinched. "Oh, God," she said, looking frantically for a place to run.
Dominic stepped in front of her. He took her face in his hands and gently, but firmly, tipped it up.
Her eyes huge and wet, she stared up at him, tears glistening like rainwater on her face. Her hands came up to clutch his arms.
Lowering his voice to a husky rasp, he said, "Never will I regret wanting to kiss you. Or, for desiring you as I did years ago."
Moisture brimmed along her lashes. "Dominic—"
"You are mine, Gisela. You always will be."
"Walk away," she said on a sob. "Forget me."
"Never." He pressed a tender kiss to the hair tangling over her brow.
She thrust her shoulders back, fighting him even in her desire. Misery shadowed her gaze like a black cloud obliterating the sun. "Please! Trust me when I say—"
"Trust me, Sweet Daisy." Coaxing her chin upward even more, he leaned his body against hers. With a gasped protest, she dropped back to sit on the table's edge. The wood squeaked at her weight.
Before she could squirm away, he nudged her legs apart with his knee. Cloth whispered, the sound akin to an impassioned sigh.
A flush stained her face. "You are a bold man."
He smiled. "Aye." What irony, that days ago, when she'd tended his ribs, she had stood in a similar fashion between his legs. Then, she had treated his physical discomfort. Now, he must tend her. He wouldn't ease bodily pain, but would assuage her emotional torment rooted in their parting long ago.
"Dominic, if you do not let me rise this instant—"
He chuckled. "You will what?" He kissed her temple. "Beat your fists upon me?"
She glared at him, but reluctance defined the set of her mouth. "I could not hurt your sore ribs."
"Scratch my eyes out, then?"
Desperation lit her gaze. "How could I wound you? How, when I still . . ." Her voice faded. She bit her lip, obviously trying to stifle her unspoken words, and looked away. "Oh, Dominic."
"Mmm?" He waited, holding her face in his hands. He kissed her eyebrow. Her eyelid. The salty path streaming down her face.
"Dominic," she moaned.
"Sweet Daisy." Dipping his head, he brushed his lips over hers. A tender memento of the love they'd once shared.
The instant their mouths touched, awareness catapulted through him. The stunning force of it snatched his breath, made him draw away for the barest moment. He shuddered, humbled by the sheer power of the physical connection.
The fierce passion between them remained, despite their years apart.
Gisela is yours, as she was before, his mind whispered. Prove that then, now, and always, she is the purest half of your soul.
She, too, must have felt the jolt of desire. She went very still. Blinking tears from her damp lashes, she looked up at him with longing and reticence. Then, her gaze fell to his mouth. Yearning darkened her eyes.
An answering need coursed through him in a swift, potent surge. He kissed her again. His mouth swept over hers, urging her to kiss him back. Asking her to return the pleasure he offered her. Demanding she acknowledge the desire between them.
A ragged cry broke from her. She seemed unable to resist any longer, for her eyelids closed. Her lips parted, accepting all he offered. Taking, yet giving in return.
Their lips moved in perfect rhythm. As perfect as years ago.
Give. Take.
Nibble. Suck.
"Gisela," he groaned. His tongue slid into her mouth. With a hungry sigh, she curved her body to meet his thrusting tongue. Her fingers, clutching his arms, curled into his tunic sleeves. Her grasping fingertips dug into his skin.
"Gisela." He kissed her faster. Deeper. Never could he devour enough of her sweetness. He bent closer, his hands sliding from her face into her hair. His fingers buried into the silken strands, holding her head firm, holding her closer to his body and heart.
Their sighs and kisses echoed in her shadowed shop, the melody of their long-ago love.
She tore her mouth free, her breath coming in harsh pants. "Dominic." In her voice, he heard both delight and despair.
"Shh." His hand slid from her hair to sweep over the curve of her shoulder. "Gisela, I have missed you."
"As I have missed you." With a hesitant touch, she caressed his face. Her gentle fingertips trailed over his healing bruise.
He smiled and kissed her thumb. Then, dipping his head, he kissed her cheek, her jaw, the velvety line of her neck.
"Nay," she breathed, her head listing back. "Wait!"
He blew on her neck and was rewarded by her gasp. Her hand fluttered, a feeble attempt to stop his sensual barrage. Resisting a grin, he caught her fingers and kissed them before pressing little kisses along her bodice's edge. He savored her soft, scented skin that obliterated all but the pleasure of her.
He nibbled a path back up to her mouth. Ravenous, seeking, her lips meshed with his. He kissed her with matching fervor. When a pleasured purr rumbled in her throat, he skimmed his other hand down over her shoulder to her bodice. Sliding his finger between the fabric and her skin, he touched the upper swell of her breast with his fingertip.
She tensed. With a strangled cry, she drew back.
Panic widened her eyes. Her breaths sharpened with urgency. His heart constricted, compassion and tenderness melding with his desire. Did she hesitate because they'd been apart so long? Did she believe, somehow, that she no longer measured up to the young maiden he had loved? That he wouldn't find her pleasing?
In his eagerness, he hadn't wooed her enough to vanquish her unease. To show how much she still meant to him. He lifted his fingers away, then squeezed her hand still entwined with his. "'Tis all right, Gisela."
She shook her head, her hair spilling over her shoulder. "We should not be kissing or . . . caressing." Shifting her bottom on the table, she tried to scoot sideways.
He didn't budge. Resisting a grin, he noted she could not escape him unless she slid backward on the table. In that instance, he would simply grab her skirts and yank her forward again.
Shoving her free hand to his chest, she said, "Please move aside."
"What happens here, now, is between us." He softened each word. "Only us."
"You do not understand."
How distressed she sounded. Her tone was vastly different from the dulcet coaxing with which she'd seduced him in the meadow. However, he sensed that passionate lover still lived on, in her thoughts, memories, and secret dreams.
"No matter what happened while we were apart, our feelings are still true," he murmured. "You cannot deny that."
She gnawed her lip. Her fingertips pressed into his tunic. How close her hand was to catching the linen on his necklace pressed against his skin.
Anguish shivered across her face. Again, she pushed at him.
"Touching you," he said quietly, "is merely acknowledging what is true."
"Nay, touching me is wrong."
"Why?" How he loved her skin's luscious softness. Of their own initiative, his fingers moved in lazy circles against her flesh, as though he traced a flower's petals.
She trembled. "Dominic."
"You are mine, Sweet Daisy."
"But—"
"Mine. Then, now, and forever."
While he spoke, he skimmed his hand down over her bodice. His mind flooded with the delicious memory of her breast molded to his palm. A groan of intense longing burned inside him.
He cupped her breast.
His thumb met a hard ridge beneath the fabric.
Shock plowed through him. At the same moment, a gasp tore from her. She recoiled, her body so rigid, she might have been stabbed in the back.
He wrenched his hand away, staring at his palm. Blood pounded hard at his temple.
What had he felt?
Merciful God, what?
A scar? Surely not. Yet, he well knew of such wounds. While on crusade, he'd tended injured knights, even stitched their skin closed to encourage healing. He'd helped Geoffrey survive near-mortal wounds that now were only scars.
To think of her enduring such pain . . .
"Gisela?" In the silent room, Dominic's anguished whisper sounded like a scream.<
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Raising his head, he looked at her. She sat with her arms folded over her bosom in a defensive posture. Her beautiful face contorted with grief.
"What happened to you?" He forced each word through his teeth.
She met his gaze with a blank stare. "Will you move away now?"
"What?"
"I said, will you move away now?"
His shock disintegrated, became cresting anger. Fury blazed—that she seemed so distant. That she held within her such terrible anguish. Above all, that she'd suffered through such an injury.
"I will not move." He tried to speak calmly and keep his fury tightly leashed, but he couldn't stop his tone from roughening. "Tell me what happened."
Shrugging, she looked across her shop. Her body trembled, but she held herself taut, pride in the thrust of her chin. The pride of a woman who had faced . . . unspeakable horror.
Tears scalded his eyes. What had she endured? What had happened to his Sweet Daisy?
Vile possibilities seared through his mind. Clamping his jaw, he struggled to keep a clear mind and not make false assumptions. "How were you wounded? In an accident?"
A bitter laugh broke from her. "Nay."
Someone had intentionally cut her.
Dominic's stomach twisted. Bile scorched the back of his mouth. He wanted to vomit. Scream. Slam his fists into the wall and smash it into splinters.
"Who hurt you?" Disbelief pounded like an anvil against his skull. "Who?" Shocking realization crashed through him. "Your . . . husband?"
She flinched with such force, the table jolted. "I told you before, I have no husband."
"The man you wed. He hurt you?" Dominic repeated, his voice rising. "Did he?"
He waited, unable to breathe. Scarcely able to see past the red haze flooding into his line of vision.
Silence strained, as tight as a thread about to snap.
She nodded.
A roar tore up from Dominic's gut, ripped through him, exploded from his lips with such ferocity, he reeled. "Gisela!"
She flinched again. "Now you know, Dominic. I am flawed, for the rest of my living days."
Her flat tone cut worse than a dagger. Did she hold herself responsible for her husband's cruelty? How could she? The man was clearly a monster.
Knights of Valor Page 42