Page 44 of A Knight’s Reward

“I liked that story,” Ewan said. “Did you, Mama?”

Gisela set aside her chicken, unable to stop the cold tremor rippling through her. “Aye, Button. ’Twas an imaginative tale.”

She doubted a woman could single-handedly slay a fire-breathing dragon. As, despite how she loathed Ryle, she doubted she had the physical strength to defeat him.

“Imaginative, true,” Dominic said quietly, “but ’tis astonishing what one can accomplish, when one’s desires are strong enough.”

“Like me, eating two pieces of chicken!” Ewan piped up.

Gisela raised her lashes to meet Dominic’s gaze. How intently he studied her. A smile touched his lips. Did he smile because he thought she resembled the Gisela in his story—because he believed he knew what she had endured? Did he want her to confront her dragon like the woman in his tale?

Dominic couldn’t know what she’d suffered at Ryle’s hand, and the very real danger he still posed to all of them. Not unless she told Dominic, or showed him her damaged breast.

Oh, God, she couldn’t bear for him to see her scar and recoil in revulsion. Not only was she as common as a roadside daisy, but disfigured. Even less worthy of him than years ago.

A wave of anguish snatched her breath away. The intimacy of her small, dingy home became a weight pressing down upon her. Rising from the bench, she said, “I must make certain I locked up my shop. I will be back in a moment.”

“Do you have any more stories?” Ewan asked Dominic, stuffing yet another date into his mouth.

Gisela stepped into her premises, leaving the door ajar to let in light. While Dominic and Ewan’s voices carried from inside her home, she drew a slow breath and crossed to her worktable. She pressed her fingers into the gown’s coarse wool. With each finished project, she brought her and her son closer to their new life.

To freedom.

Her hair tumbled forward as she bowed her head and slowly rolled her shoulders to ease her tension. Once she completed Crenardieu’s commission, she’d have enough money to take her little boy far away from Clovebury. The realization held much less pleasure than days ago.

The thought of leaving Dominic behind, of never seeing him again, hurt so very, very much. Worse than the memory of Ryle cutting her.

Yet, what other choice did she have?

None.

Staring down at her fingers, she swallowed, her throat painfully tight. She had to forget Dominic… because she’d loved him years ago.

And, God help her, she still loved him.

“Do not lie to me, Gisela. You still love Dominic, aye?” Ryle sneered, crouched naked on their bed, his hand closed around her neck and pinning her down on the pillow. His face glistened with sweat. “You want Dominic in this bed, not me. You dream of him, not me. Your body aches for him, not me.”

“Ryle,” she gasped. “You… are hurting… me.”

His lips curled. He snatched her fluttering hand from the bedding and shoved it between his legs. Her fingers connected with soft, flaccid flesh. So very different from Dominic’s manhood.

Tears scalded her eyes. She writhed, desperate to break free.

Ryle’s mouth contorted on an oath. His fingertips dug into her neck, punishing her.

“Please—” she croaked.

Again, he pushed her hand to his groin. “This is because of your treachery. Your fault. Yours! I swear to you, Gisela, if I ever see Dominic, I will kill him!”

With a strangled cry, she broke from the horrible memory. She straightened, sucking in a ragged breath, her whole body shaking. Still, she could feel Ryle’s fingers biting into her flesh.

Uncurling her hands from the gown on the table, Gisela massaged her neck, eager to erase the awful sensation. How she despised the power Ryle held over her. Would she ever be truly free of him?

Aye. She would.

Drawing in slow, even breaths to regain her calm, she snipped a stray thread from the gown and hung it on the wall peg. She smoothed the fabric’s folds, her hands steadier than before, and smiled, comforted by a sense of pride. While cut from common cloth, the simple, well-made gown would last for years—unlike the frivolous fashions of the courts that changed as oft as the seasons.

Dominic’s lady wife no doubt had such a wardrobe.