Page 2 of A Knight’s Reward

Rowdy laughter erupted behind her. Men jesting. The familiar fear roused inside her, a reminder of her watcher. She must be on her way.

Waving a gracious hand, she said, “Thank you, but I could not⁠—”

“Go on.” The baker pushed the cake into her palm, then patted her fingers closed around it. “Think naught of it. ’Tis my treat.”

“Th-thank you.”

His shoulders raised in a shrug before he addressed the farmer’s wife who had elbowed in next to Gisela and asked about the rye loaves.

The currant cake cradled in her hand, Gisela walked away. Chickens clucked in crates at the stall farther on. Copper pans gleamed in the sunlight. Skirting a group of men haggling over a cow, she strode on, forcing herself to take lazy strides. Even though inside, panic welled.

A dog hurtled past her, a joint of meat in its jaws, two men in pursuit. She stepped aside, out of the way. Curiosity nagged at her. ’Twould be dangerous to sneak a look at her watcher. Part of her didn’t want to accept that her safe haven here in Clovebury, this town on the edge of Moydenshire, land of Lord Geoffrey de Lanceau, had been broached.

Yet, part of her—the angry, protective part—demanded to know who followed her.

Lingering a moment, she looked over the leather goods set out at the tanner’s stall. Keeping her head down, she dared a sidelong glance down the row of stalls, skimming each of the people standing nearby to see if she recognized anyone.

A peddler in a long, tattered mantle, taking each of his steps with a wooden stick, hobbled his way through the throng.

The same hunched old man—aye, she was sure of it—had followed her to the baker’s stall.

She rubbed her lips together, her mouth suddenly dry. Market day attracted all kinds of travelers, especially thieves and peddlers. If Ryle wanted to find her, he would not have sent a thug disguised as a peddler.

Would he?

The dog with the meat joint spun and hurtled back the way it had come, the men still in pursuit. As the mongrel darted past the peddler, it brushed the hem of his long garment.

He wore leather boots.

With spurs.

The mark of knighthood.

Most peddlers were lucky to be able to afford shoes.

A panicked cry flared in Gisela’s throat. She turned on her heel, painfully aware of the peddler’s stick rapping on the dirt.

Thud, thud, thud sounded behind her.

Run, run, run! her mind shrilled.

Squaring her shoulders, she strolled toward the trainer and his dancing bears.

Dominic de Terre cursed as he shuffled through the crowd, close behind the slender woman who, he sensed, had realized he was following her. Moving along with a steady plod, plod, he rued the itchy, woolen mantle that disguised him and hampered his movements. God’s blood, but a man could roast like a suckling pig in such a garment.

A necessary disguise, though. One he and Geoffrey de Lanceau, his closest friend and lord, had agreed upon, as a means to infiltrate Clovebury’s market.

Someone had stolen Geoffrey’s last shipment of costly silks while they were being shipped down the river to his castle, Branton Keep. A king’s ransom in cloth, missing.

Dominic had vowed to find the thieves—a quest that had brought him to this sleepy little town on the verge of nowhere.

The woman ahead moved with a languid grace. Despite the well-worn cloak covering her from head to toe, a peasant’s garb, she moved in a most enticing way.

Like a woman he’d known years ago.

A woman he’d loved with a passion close to madness.

And left behind when he’d ridden away to join King Richard’s crusade.