Page 52 of A Knight’s Reward

Dominic groaned, his stomach protesting every slight movement. God’s teeth, he was a drunkard!

Drunk as a brandy-soaked pudding.

Yet, the contents of his belly felt like curdled custard—and equally as volatile.

Unable to restrain another groan, he pressed his palms flat against the pallet. It rustled as he slowly sat up, the events of the previous night filtering into his foggy mind. How many drinks had he bought Crenardieu? Seven? Ten? The obnoxious Frenchman, who’d grinned at the barmaid each time she’d strolled by, drank like a leaky keg and never seemed to get addled. Nor had he revealed any good information. Horribly disappointing, when the whole point of imbibing in the first place was to loosen the man’s tongue and wrest details from him.

Especially what Crenardieu knew about Gisela.

Gisela. A smile softened Dominic’s frown. How he longed to see her. Needed to. The keen ache, always more intense when he’d had too much to drink and his mind wandered to “what ifs” and “what might have been,” resonated in his soul.

That torment was the reason he had imagined himself in a meadow, no doubt.

Dominic swiped at straw dangling in his eyes, then brushed off his wrinkled tunic. Once he got to his feet, he’d go see Gisela. An excellent plan. The best plan he’d devised since… Never mind.

Rubbing his throbbing brow, he steeled himself to stand. He would walk to her home. Step by step. One boot in front of the other. Simple.

With an awkward shove, he rose, careening three steps sideways and almost tripping over his saddlebag. He barely avoided the ink pot and quill on the floor, left out from when he had penned Geoffrey a quick missive. Dominic steadied his balance. A belch erupted from down in his belly. God’s knees! That explosion of sound would bring the tavern’s rafters crashing down on him. He might need more bandaging from Gisela.

Hmm. Not an entirely unpleasant prospect.

Just thinking of her warm, gentle hands moving over him again…

Behave, Dominic.

He sucked in a breath, shuddering when the linen bandages he still wore tickled his skin. After rubbing his hands over his face, he attempted to smooth his hair. It felt like a rat’s nest. He had not been in such a state since Geoffrey and Lady Elizabeth’s wedding celebrations. However long ago that was.

Squaring his shoulders, he fixed his gaze on the doorway and started toward it. Thud, thud, went his boots. Gurgle, gurgle, answered his gut. At least he was moving forward, even if not in an entirely straight line.

He stepped out into the shadowed hallway, made his way down the creaky staircase—bypassing slumbering drunkards and empty ale mugs—and walked out into the tavern yard. He squinted against the bright light. The tavern was quiet now, slumbering like a blowsy strumpet, very different from last eve when the revelry had tumbled out through the open door.

Filling his lungs with fresh air, he headed into the alley and toward Gisela’s shop, stopping on the way to buy a pastry from a street vendor. He ate while he walked. A good idea, to eat. His belly felt more stable already. The fog cleared from his mind.

His steps lightened when he entered the street near Gisela’s premises. Anticipation glowed inside him, for soon he’d see her lovely face tinged pink with a blush. The graceful sweep of her hair he longed to touch. The proud, yet beautiful, tilt of her chin.

Brushing stray crumbs from his tunic, he glanced toward her shop.

Closed.

He came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the street, wobbling a moment. A young boy pulling a small cartload of firewood grumbled under his breath and veered past, as did the mongrel at the lad’s heels.

Misgiving lanced through Dominic, tainting his excitement with a sense of dread. He shrugged the unease away. No doubt there was a reasonable explanation for Gisela’s shop being shut. Mayhap she had gone to meet with a client.

Mayhap Ewan was ill.

Mayhap Gisela was unwell. He’d sensed something was amiss last evening. She might not have wanted him to know of her ailment because she realized he would insist on staying to care for her. Thus, he wouldn’t be able to pursue his mission for Geoffrey.

Dominic sighed. Even after years apart, she knew him well. He would, indeed, have stayed. He’d always loved her stubborn, independent streak, but if he didn’t look after her, who would?

Even before he willed his body into motion, he was striding toward the building. He fought the urge to slam his shoulder into the door and break it from its hinges. Hardly the way to impress Gisela. Not wise, either, considering his healing ribs. Moreover, the rash act would attract attention from passersby, who would view him as a dragon rather than a protector; he did not care for another round of local justice.

Curling his hand into a fist, he knocked three times.

A muffled oath came from within, followed by the scrape of furniture across the floor.

“Who is there?” Gisela called from inside.

He smiled, his anticipation burning anew. “Dominic.”