Page 51 of A Knight’s Reward

His flattery only deepened her unease. How she longed to ask if the silk was stolen—to have an answer to the question gnawing at her conscience. However, to do so might jeopardize her dealings with him. If he resented her suspicion, he might take away the unfinished garments, and the money he’d promised would be lost.

“Tsk-tsk! Do not look at me so, Anne—as though I ask you to commit some kind of crime. ’Twould be a shame to spoil my customer’s surprise for his mistress, oui, if word got out about the commission?”

“True,” Gisela answered, even as a chill wove through her. “Did your client ask for the garments to be finished sooner?”

The Frenchman’s head dipped in the barest nod.

“Mayhap if you explain to him that to do my best work, I need until next week⁠—”

Crenardieu shrugged, his luxurious cloak whispering with the movement. “I did not foresee a problem. If you cannot complete the garments⁠—”

I will find someone else to do the work, and you will not receive payment, her mind finished for her. “I will do as you ask.”

“Good.” His smile thinned. “I would hate for the wrong people to learn you are unreliable. Or,” he said quietly, “exactly where you are.”

His words pummeled her like chunks of melting ice. A tremor shook her, so powerful, she almost keeled into the wall.

Placing her palm against the stone, she used its strength to fortify her. She struggled for calm. “What do you mean?”

Another grin, deliberate and cold. “Come now, Anne.”

His emphasis on her false name sent fear screaming through her. Oh, God. Oh, God. Did he know her true identity?

If he knew… who else did?

Desperation tightened her breathing. She barely restrained the urge to whirl, grab Ewan’s hand, and run. However, the willful, wounded part of her bared its teeth in defiance. She had done all this man asked of her. She didn’t deserve his goading. She’d not cower to his bullying, especially in front of an audience that, she noted, was watching their exchange with expressions of both amusement and outright curiosity.

Crenardieu might have no idea who she really was. He might be testing her, to gauge her reaction, because he’d heard a rumor from one of his associates.

Pretend you do not know what he is talking about. Bluff through it. You can do it, Gisela.

By sheer strength of will, she managed a puzzled smile. “Your words confuse me. You know my name is Anne.”

“Aye.” Cruel humor glittered in his eyes. “‘But, is it your real name?”

Ewan tugged at the back of her cloak. “Mama! Your name is⁠—”

She spun. “Ewan,” she snapped, so fiercely, his eyes widened with shock. She wept inside at the hurt in his eyes, as well as the crushing dread she could scarcely contain. When she turned back to face the Frenchman, she squeezed her son’s hand. Later, she’d apologize for shouting at him. At this moment, she needed her verbal claws to protect them both.

Looking Crenardieu straight in the eye, she said, “Please say what it is you wish of me. Otherwise, I ask that you let me be on my way, so I can finish your commission.”

Admiration lit his gaze before he glanced away. “Those of us in the cloth trade know each other well. Those connections are an important part of our business.” He adjusted one of his gemstone rings. “’Tis well known Ryle Balewyne is looking for his runaway wife and son.” Crenardieu’s gaze locked with hers. “For you.”

She tried to force a denial between her teeth. But, she couldn’t get a sound past the fear jamming her throat.

“Do not fail me,” the Frenchman said as he turned away. “Two days, Gisela.”

CHAPTER 9

The scent of dried grasses filled Dominic’s nostrils. Ahh. He lay in a summer meadow, his cheek tickled by the greenery, his body cocooned in a breeze alive with the buzz of a happy insect. God’s holy fingernails, but he was drunk with the pleasure of the meadow…

The drone intensified. Something landed on his arm. Pinched.

“Ow!” Dominic’s head snapped up. The meadow swam. A merciless ache crashed against his forehead, a sensation akin to being whacked by a board. Groaning, he fell back to the ground.

Nay, ’twas not the ground.

He cracked open his bleary eyes as his befuddled senses began to sharpen. He lay in the small, dingy room in The Stubborn Mule Tavern. A fly—which disappeared through the ill-fitting shutters at the window—had just bitten his forearm. He lay flat on his belly, his fine mantle squashed into a makeshift pillow, his hands curled into the musty-smelling pallet that served as his bed. He sprawled like a drunkard who’d collapsed after a night of overindulgence.