Page 97 of A Knight’s Reward

Dominic forced a careless expression. “Gisela can tell you naught.”

The Frenchman’s smug smile did not waver. He seemed to know every thought undermining Dominic’s courage.

Shame swept through him. How stupid of him to fall prey to Crenardieu’s taunt. For not being strong enough to hide his weakness.

“How do you know Gisela cannot help me?”

By sheer strength of will, Dominic managed a disparaging laugh. “She is but a tailor.”

“You visited her shop more than once. She is far more than an acquaintance to you, oui?”

Bastard!

Dominic refused to cower to the Frenchman’s probing stare.

Crenardieu’s mouth curled into a sneer. “Did you really believe others would not notice the way you look upon her? The affection you bestow upon her in every glance and word?”

Dismay sank like a rock into the pit of Dominic’s stomach. He scrambled for a way to cast doubt upon Crenardieu’s words. “There, you are wrong.”

“Ryle will know for certain.”

“What do you mean?” Rage hammered in Dominic’s temple. His arms, pinned by Crenardieu’s thugs, shook with the force of his fury. If that dragon of a man dared to set one hand upon her…

With agonizing slowness, Crenardieu inspected the largest of his rings, then glanced back at Dominic. “What did you tell de Lanceau in your other letters to him?”

Dominic clamped his jaw.

The Frenchman nodded.

Close behind him, Dominic heard the ominous hiss of uncoiling rope. Not again!

He lunged forward, hoping to break the thugs’ hold. How he craved the moment he walloped Crenardieu!

The thugs’ fingers dug into his arms. Yanked him back. Forced him, kicking and thrashing, down on his knees.

The rope whistled, an instant before it lashed across his back.

Dominic bit down on his lip, fighting a scream. He crumpled forward, his arms imprisoned by the two thugs. His hair brushed the dirt. His eyes watered with the agony searing through him. Beneath the bandages still wrapped around his ribs, he felt the warm trickle of blood.

Closing his eyes, he focused on a vision of Gisela, standing as he’d last seen her in her shop. So beautiful, despite the fear in her eyes. Fear, aye, but also iron resolve.

As the rope whistled again, bringing more excruciating pain, the image in his mind sharpened. Her flaxen hair streaming behind her like a banner, Gisela stood with her hands clenched around the hilt of a glinting sword. Determination blazing in her eyes, she raised her weapon.

She lunged toward a fire-breathing dragon.

“Only a few more leagues to go,” the baker called over his shoulder, his voice barely audible over the creaking and rumbling of the wagon.

Seated in the back, Gisela nodded at him. As she jostled from side to side, her gaze shifted to the pinpoints of light ahead—the torches on the battlements of Branton Keep.

Apprehension shuddered through her, colder than the night breeze tousling her hair and numbing her hands. She glanced down at Ewan, curled up beside her. Sound asleep, he lay with his head resting on a folded blanket in her lap. Sir Smug peeped out from under his arm. In the moonlight, Ewan’s face looked utterly peaceful, his mouth slightly open, his lashes dark feathers against his cheeks.

My sweet child. How I love you. Know that I will always love you, even if we cannot be together as before.

Tears dampened Gisela’s eyes while she tucked the coarse blanket, provided by the baker, more carefully about her son’s shoulders. How she cherished these quiet moments with him, the contentment of holding him close.

The wagon bounced down into a rut, then out again with a loud squeak. Ewan stirred and mumbled in his sleep, but did not wake.

The baker muttered under his breath before clucking to his horse. “Easy now, lovey. I know ye are tired, but we are almost there.” Then, as if noticing flour on the clean garments he had donned before their journey, he swatted at his sleeve.