Page 4 of A Knight’s Reward

Did she recognize his voice, but not want to speak with him ever again? Aye, that could be the crux of it. As he dried his dirty palms on his mantle, regret burrowed deeper, for their parting had been very painful. At that difficult point in his life, he’d had no choice but to leave England and join King Richard’s crusade. As much as he’d loved her, he couldn’t have married her. As she’d well known.

Shrugging aside his misgivings, Dominic started toward the tavern. A small, round object lying on the ground a few yards from the stable caught his gaze. He crossed to it before dropping to one knee in the dirt. With careful fingers, he picked up the object.

A broken currant cake.

The baker had handed Gisela one of the sweets.

Pushing to his feet, Dominic looked toward the stable doorway. Grayed shadows marked the entrance, concealing the interior. She could be hiding inside.

He shifted the remains of the little cake in his palm, and it disintegrated. Crumbs slipped between his fingers, like rough-grained sand. Like the years that had passed and changed them both.

He tossed the crumbs in the direction of a starling, watching bright-eyed from the tavern roof. The inevitable choice loomed before him—to step into the stable and face Gisela, or turn around and stride away, leaving the past behind him.

Years ago, he’d walked away. Every night since then, Gisela had been with him, smiling up at him while she lay in the lush meadow grass, her hair spread around her like golden fire. A bracelet of daisies dangled from her wrist as she trailed slender fingers down his cheek, over his lips, down to the front of his tunic.

God’s blood, he could not walk away now.

Dragging a hand over his jaw, he exhaled a ragged breath, and then strode toward the stable.

Gisela flattened against the stable’s far wall. Sunlight poked through cracks in the worn wood, slashing lines across the mounded hay in the center of the room, the implements hung on the opposite wall, the empty water trough nearby. Farther in the stable, a horse snorted, then pawed its stall.

Faint, gritty boot falls reached her, the sound of her pursuer running into the tavern yard, then coming to a halt. Hardly daring to breathe, she imagined him studying the quiet, empty yard, his face crumpled with defeat. She prayed he wouldn’t think to check the stable. That any moment, she’d hear him curse, spin on his heel, and stride away.

More crunched footfalls. Coming closer, not receding.

A pause.

Oh, God.

The moment of silence stretched, poignant and insidious. Her pulse thundered, as loud as a musician hammering on a tabor. She bit down on her bottom lip, even as a violent shiver tore through her. The sticky residue from the currant cake burned her palm like a brand, for in her frantic dash to the stable, she’d dropped Ewan’s treat. Where, she could not remember.

Mayhap her pursuer would not find it, she quickly reassured herself. By now, a hungry mongrel had probably eaten it.

Her watcher might not even have seen the baker hand it to her, and therefore, even if he did find the cake, it would have no significance.

None.

Yet, the doubt settled deeper—like months of dust, stirred up by a cloud of ill wind, floating down to collect again in a stifling blanket.

The memory of Ryle’s reddened face, twisted into that terrible sneer, again wrestled its way into her thoughts. That evening, he’d been angrier—and more drunk—than she’d ever seen him. Thank the saints, sleeping Ewan, tucked away in his chamber at the other end of the manor house, hadn’t witnessed the violence.

She could only imagine Ryle’s wrath when she was returned to him.

Oh, God. Oh, God!

Her legs shook. She pressed her back against the rough wooden wall, into the darkest shadows. With only one route in or out of the stable, she must force herself to be patient, to be as still and silent as a tomb sculpture. Despite the smell of hay tickling her nostrils.

Despite the splinter biting into her right palm.

Despite—

Just as she covered her nose to stop a sneeze, the light in the stable’s doorway dimmed. The muted thud of footfalls reached her.

Her pursuer had stepped inside.

Tension hummed inside her with the resonance of a single, plucked harp string. The air inside the stable changed. Shifted.

She sensed his presence. Determined. Inquisitive.