Page 13 of A Knight’s Reward

Waited.

A cloaked figure walked into his line of vision. The intruder held an object in his right hand. A weapon? “D⁠—?”

Before his mind acknowledged the voice, he lunged. Catapulting forward, he collided with the intruder. His breath exhaled on a roar as, with his body weight, he slammed the cloaked figure against the stable wall. His left arm pinned the intruder’s neck. He raised his knife, just as he realized how slight the person was, compared to the burly men he’d fought earlier.

A hard object thumped on the toe of his boot, then fell into the straw.

“Dominic!” Gisela gasped. Framed by the cloak’s hood, her face looked as white as death. With the haze of attack fleeing from his mind, he recognized the rounded softness of her breasts beneath the woolen cloak, the flaxen shimmer of her hair peeking out from the hood, and her sweet scent.

“God’s blood!” Lowering the dagger, he stepped back. “I am sorry.”

Her mouth parted, but no sound emerged.

His exertions caught up to him. He sucked in a shaky breath, then grimaced. He forced a wry laugh. “We must stop meeting in such dire ways, Gisela. Otherwise, I shall become as witless as a block of cheese.”

Her trembling hand rose to her lips. She stared at the dagger. Revulsion clouded her eyes, while her fingers slid down her cloak to rest above her right breast.

“Gisela,” he murmured.

She didn’t seem to hear him. She continued to stare at the knife, which clearly held a terrible fascination. The horror on her face… It threatened to shatter him.

“Gisela!”

Her expression did not change. Her fingers pressed to her cloak, as though to stop blood gushing from a wound.

An icy chill skittered down his spine. She seemed in some kind of grisly trance. He’d witnessed men in such a state after battle, the gruesomeness of what they had encountered so overwhelming, they’d retreated into their own minds. Some never made the mental journey back.

Why would she react so? Surely she had not experienced battle.

Ignoring his nagging worry, he bent and pushed the knife back into its sheath. After straightening with a pained grunt, he stepped past her to retrieve the object lying in the straw a few yards away: an earthenware pot.

Dominic removed the lid and caught the pungent, herbal scent of salve. Astonishment lanced through him. She had come to tend his wounds.

She did care what happened to him, then.

He replaced the lid. Cradling the pot in his palm, he turned to face her. Her slender fingers still touched above her breast, but a hint of color had returned to her cheeks. Cognizance glimmered again in her eyes.

He tried not to stare, but he couldn’t keep his gaze from dropping to her hand at her bosom. With wicked intensity, he remembered her breasts framed by her partly removed bodice. How smooth her breasts were, so exquisitely perfect, when he’d cupped them with his hands years ago.

Had he injured her, when he threw her against the wall? Mayhap he’d bruised her lovely flesh, or accidentally cut her. “Did I hurt you?”

She made a nervous little sound before shaking her head. She snatched her fingers away. A rosy stain darkened her cheekbones.

Dominic dragged a hand over his mouth. He had to do something with his traitorous palm that wanted to cover the place she’d just abandoned.

Searching for words to ease the awkward silence, he said, “I did not mean to frighten you.”

“W-why did you threaten me with your knife?” She shivered as she spoke and hugged her arms across her chest.

“I thought you were the baker and his friend, returning to ensure I left Clovebury.”

Her gaze fixed on his bruised jaw. Compassion shadowed her eyes. “Did the baker hit you?”

“As often as I pummeled him. He got me well in the ribs, though.” Dominic chuckled, but grimaced as discomfort shot through his face and rib cage. “Believe me, Gisela, if I had known ’twas you, I would never have drawn my dagger.”

A tentative smile curved her mouth. “You do not intend to take me from here?”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”