Knights of Valor

by Denise Domning

  His eyes burned. 'Twas tougher this time to smile. His hand closed tighter around the salve pot, warmed by his palm. He managed to say, "I promise. I am no fire-breathing dragon, Gisela, come to destroy you. I am but a flesh-and-blood man." And one who has missed you very, very much.

  Her gaze softened. A puff of breath escaped her, before she blinked hard. Moisture glistened along her bottom lashes. "Thank God."

  "Gisela—"

  A sob broke from her. She closed the space between them, her hands fisting and uncurling as she walked. He ached to reach out and take her in his arms. To kiss her hair's silken softness. To hold her close and whisper that she never had to fear dragons ever again, for he would slay them with pebbles and straw if need be.

  Would she let him embrace her? Mayhap she would think him too bold.

  She probably belonged to another man, now.

  Ah, what a painful thought!

  Gisela hesitated before him. Her scent, perfumed with ambrosial memories of that summer meadow, teased him. Part of him begged to step away, to put distance between them and remove the temptation to touch her.

  He could not. Like long ago, he was . . .

  Captivated.

  She tipped up her chin. Her hair slipped down off her shoulders in a golden ripple. Her moist gaze, haunted with a maelstrom of emotions, skimmed his face. Slowly. Carefully. As though comparing the man she remembered to the one who stood before her now.

  Her breath rasped between her lips. Not quite a sob, but not a controlled exhalation, either. Anticipation hovered in each shuddered breath.

  He was so entranced by the scent and sound of her, he didn't expect her touch. Light as a daisy petal, her fingers brushed his jaw. A tentative, almost disbelieving exploration.

  "Oh, Dominic," she whispered, tears streaming down her face. "I still cannot believe you are here."

  "But, I am." Ignoring the pain when he moved, he caught her hand. He pressed her palm to his skin, trapping his bruise beneath their joined hands.

  She sniffled. "How—"

  "I will tell you all," he promised. "Whatever you wish to know." Lifting her fingers away from his cheek, cradling them in his own, he kissed her palm. "'Tis good to see you, Gisela."

  "And you," she said softly, her gaze fixed to her palm, as though she saw his kiss there, shimmering like a precious jewel.

  Without looking away, he dropped the salve pot into the straw by his boots. Reaching up, he caught a stray lock of her hair, wondrously silken, as he remembered. A groan rumbled in his throat. She quivered, but didn't pull away.

  Touch her, his mind whispered. Kiss her, like before.

  Just when he thought to slide his arm around her waist to draw her close, he heard men talking in the tavern yard. Gisela started. Whirling away, she yanked her hood back over her head. As tense as a cornered doe, she faced the stable doorway.

  A bitter taste flooded his tongue. How he hated to see her so changed.

  "Do not be afraid," Dominic said. "'Tis probably farmers headed to The Stubborn Mule for a drink."

  "Or the two men returning for you."

  A grudging grin tilted his mouth. "If so, and there is another confrontation, I will protect you."

  She glanced at him. "You are injured."

  "A nuisance, aye, but I can still fight."

  God's teeth, she looked about to scold him. As though he were a dull-witted child who could not even put on his own undergarments without help.

  He scowled.

  Gisela threw out her hands. "Your wounds need to be tended. You cannot fight when you are wounded."

  Nay? Ha!

  "There is no other choice, Dominic," she said tightly. "You cannot stay here. You must come home with me."

  You must come home with me.

  Even as she spoke the words, uncertainty gnawed at Gisela's frustration. Taking Dominic to her house wove a whole new knot into their relationship, one she had no idea how to face. Just the thought of him and Ewan in the same room made her stomach twist in a most unsettling fashion. However, there was no other option at this moment, apart from leaving Dominic in the stable, and she simply couldn't abandon him.

  Dominic was staring at her with the most curious expression—a mixture of disbelief and pleasure. Almost as if she'd told him they must both strip off their garments and dangle upside down from the rafters.

  Trust him to think such.

  He cleared his throat. Keeping his voice down, to keep their conversation from whomever stood outside in the yard, he said, "Are you certain 'tis a good idea?"

  Nay. 'Twas probably the most foolish idea she'd ever conceived. Somehow, she managed a confident smile. "Of course."

  He pulled his fingers through his hair, wincing at the effort. The men's voices came from outside again. Her gaze flew to the doorway, tension buzzing so sharply in her veins, she wanted to scream. Reaching down, she snatched up the pot of salve—better to take it than have to buy more—and then gestured for him to follow. She started toward the stable doorway with light, quick steps.

  He muttered under his breath.

  Stiffness gathered between her shoulder blades. If he made one more idiotic protest—

  Straw rustled beside her, and then his strong, firm hand caught her elbow. Memories of Ryle's commanding grip lanced through her, and she instinctively recoiled, lurching, almost falling in her panic.

  Dominic cursed. He instantly released her. His hand fell to his side, while his eyes narrowed, as if to shutter his concern. But, it still shimmered in his gaze. "God's bloody knees, Gisela. When we are somewhere we can talk, you will tell me why you are so afeared."

  Her mouth tightened at his authoritative tone. So very different from long ago, yet his boldness had likely kept him alive when others perished on crusade. Even as she recognized the toughened warrior he'd become, the maternal part of her surged to the fore.

  "When we are somewhere we can talk," she said quietly, "you will not curse like a foul-mouthed sot. Agreed?" She did not want to spend days trying to stop Ewan from using the same words over and over.

  Dominic's brows raised.

  Fie! He had the audacity to look . . . affronted?

  "Also," she said, keeping her voice low, "when others are about, you will call me Anne."

  "As the baker did earlier," Dominic murmured. "Why?"

  "Because in this town, that is my name."

  "Ah." With a curious smile, he said, "Are you, also, disguised as someone else?"

  Dread snaked through her. Shaking her head, she said, "Dominic, do not change the subject. Do you agree?"

  "I do." He grinned. "I will be a very well-behaved knight."

  He sounded just like Ewan—and his gaze held the same mischievous sparkle. Oh, God, was she wise to take Dominic to her home? What other choice did she have? None. "Let us be on our w—"

  Laughter erupted outside.

  The mirth vanished from Dominic's eyes. "Help me get out of this," he whispered, motioning to his long, filthy mantle.

  "What? Why—"

  "The baker and his assistant—and any of their friends—know me as a peddler. I will leave the disguise here." He handed her the knife, then unfastened the mantle and began to shrug out of it. Pain darkened his eyes.

  "Let me." With a shaking hand, she helped him remove the tattered garment, aware of his breath warming the wool of her hood, and the heat of his body underneath the bulky garment. The mantle dropped to the straw. Underneath he wore a simple brown tunic, hose, and boots, well-fitting garments that defined his broad, muscular form.

  Their gazes met for a moment before he reclaimed the knife. He stepped ahead of her, shielding her body with his own. The dagger glinted.

  With his free hand, he cautioned her to remain still. He edged forward to peer toward the doorway. She heard his indrawn breath when he moved in a way that strained his injuries.

  A moment later, he gestured for her to join him.

  "The men are heading to the tavern," he said in hushe
d tones. "Take my hand, and we will head for the alley." As he spoke, he turned the dagger so the flat of the blade pressed against his wrist and forearm, hidden by his tunic's cuff.

  She nodded and slid her fingers into his.

  Sensation glimmered where their palms touched. It spread through her, a delicious warmth akin to the sun slipping free of a storm cloud. A sigh shivered from her. The brush of his callused skin against hers, his snug but gentle grip, the memory of his touch long ago, sent awareness flooding through her. And an undeniable sense of . . . belonging.

  Biting down on her lip, she looked up at Dominic, leading her toward the stable's doorway. If he'd noticed her reaction to his touch, he didn't acknowledge it, not even by the slightest glance back. Drawing her close behind him, he stepped out of the stable's shadows into the sunlight.

  Dirt crunched under his strong strides—markedly different from the clumsy, shuffled gait of the peddler he had pretended to be. At a swift pace, he led her toward the narrow alley. Rowdy laughter came from the tavern. She dared a sidelong glance and saw two men stepping through the open doorway.

  The weather-beaten panel swung shut.

  She blew out a relieved breath.

  With a wry chuckle, Dominic drew her into the alley. Glancing over his shoulder, he said, "'Twas a heavy sigh, Gisela."

  "We do not appear to have been followed."

  "That we know of."

  She swallowed. "You mean—"

  "We will not dally." While he spoke, he urged her to a quicker pace. "There may be thugs waiting for us at the street ahead."

  "Waiting for you, you mean," she said. "You must be a dangerous man, Dominic."

  His shoulders stiffened. Tension, now, defined his strides. As they hurried on, the smoky tang of the blacksmith's market fire carrying on the breeze, Dominic muttered, "I had not thought so."

  "You had reason, though, to be disguised as a peddler. Do you have enemies in Clovebury?"

  He suddenly froze, as though hearing a suspicious noise, and pressed her back against the stone wall of a nearby building. Flattened beside her, he said quietly, "We will discuss the matter later." After freeing his hand from hers, he slid the knife from his sleeve. He glanced at the entry to the alley. Tense. Alert.

  A guarded secretiveness shadowed his handsome face. Resolve defined the set of his mouth. As she looked up at him, a wilder, tougher version of the man she'd loved, she wondered how much she really knew him. And whether he would answer her question.

  Years ago, even though he was the son of a rich lord and she but a common merchant's daughter, they would have told each other anything. Promised each other anything.

  Now . . .

  Pressing her fingers to the building's rough stone, she tried to ignore the anguish of lost dreams. Both of their lives had changed, too much for her to hope he'd be in her life again with any more permanence than a shifting sunbeam.

  Despite what they'd shared in the past . . . and what they had in common now.

  Dominic no doubt had hundreds of beautiful, wealthy noblewomen vying for his attentions. Years ago, after the arranged marriage his father and stepmother had tried to force upon him, he'd vowed he would never wed. How he had railed in the meadow, stomping through the grass and cursing his entrapment that had naught to do with love, only his father's ambitions. To escape his betrothal to the highborn lady barely thirteen years old, he'd joined the king's crusade and left England.

  Now that he'd returned, an older and more worldly-wise man, he likely viewed marriage differently. He was probably wed to a lady worthy of his noble status, with children of his own.

  Swallowing down the distressing thought, Gisela watched him peer into the alley. He grimaced, revealing the motion hurt. Then he laughed and shook his head. A mangy cat bounded past, a mouse in its jaws.

  "Come on." Clasping her hand again, Dominic led her into the alley and toward the noisy market square. Musicians had started up a lively tune for an audience who clapped in time to the melody.

  "Dominic, we are going the wrong way."

  "Trust me," he said. "'Tis safest for us right now to be in a crowd. 'Twill be easier to lose anyone who might be following. Then, you may show me where to go."

  Resentment—an emotional habit worn like a rut into her soul—welled up inside her at his commanding tone. Ryle had often spoken to her as though she had the intelligence of an iron trivet. Simply by being her husband, he'd believed he had the right to control even the tiniest facets of her existence.

  A shudder jarred through her, leaving in its wake a painful emptiness. She shoved aside thoughts of Ryle. Dominic was not Ryle. Could never be Ryle.

  Dominic glanced back at her, his brow creased with a frown. "What is wrong? Did you see someone following?"

  "I am just . . . uneasy."

  Compassion softened his gaze before he looked away. "'Tis not a bad thing," he said, so softly she almost didn't hear. "'Twill keep you safe."

  Safe. She'd forgotten what 'twas like to be safe. No matter how reassured she might feel with Dominic leading the way, danger still lurked. Ahead of her. Behind her. In the market that drew townspeople from this county and beyond, some of whom likely knew Ryle. Never must she let down her caution.

  They approached the market's outskirts. The bear trainer stood chatting with a group of men. Children scrambled in the dirt, chasing one another, while vendors, shouting encouragement to buy their wares, loaded more items onto their stall tables.

  Dominic skirted the bear trainer and led her into the crowd between the rows of merchant tables.

  With a sharp stab of fear, she saw they neared the baker's table. Had he returned to his stall? Would he recognize her? She squeezed Dominic's hand in silent warning. When he looked at her, she tipped her head, indicating the space between two nearby vendors; she and Dominic could slip through into the other section of the market.

  Before she started in that direction, Dominic tugged her forward, forcing her to walk at his side, his body between her and the row of stalls, including the baker's. Dominic's arm settled around her waist. Drawing her near, bending his head close to hers, he propelled her onward.

  To anyone watching, they'd appear to be a couple in love, the besotted man whispering endearments to his beloved while they shopped.

  Confusion rushed through Gisela, even as his breath warmed her brow. The brush of his body against hers wreaked havoc with every emotional boundary she had established for herself. Desire, regret, the torment of their parting tangled up inside her. Her emotions unraveled, like a skein of thread tumbling from a table onto the floorboards and rolling across the planks.

  Nay! Never could she yield to fickle emotion. 'Twould make her careless. She couldn't afford one mistake when Ewan's safety—indeed, his life—depended on her.

  Her spine rigid, she tried to step out of Dominic's embrace.

  His arm tightened, curtailing her freedom. "Pretend you care for me, Gisela," he whispered against her ear.

  Hot-cold tingles shivered down her neck. "Dominic—" How could he ask that of her? How, when he no doubt loved another woman? A lady?

  "Pretend as 'twas between us before," he coaxed with a hint of regret. "Believe, for this moment, that we were never apart. Please."

  His regret burrowed inside her, an echo of every lonely day she'd missed him. She tried to swallow, but her mouth had become painfully dry. The dust stirred up by other market goers stung her eyes.

  "'Tis difficult to pretend?" he said, his tone teasing. Yet, she discerned dismay, too.

  "'Tis a game I have forgotten how to play," she answered, reaching up to sweep an escaping lock of hair back inside her hood. A game of love I have not played since I lost you.

  "A pity, for a woman with eyes as blue as the summer sky."

  A flush stole into her face. "Cease."

  "—and lips as pink as the fleeting blush of sunset."

  Her startled gaze flew to his. "Dominic!"

  He grinned in a most gallant way be
fore he kissed her brow. "And teeth as white as meadow daisies."

  Daisies. Fighting a flood of anguish, she looked away, to catch the bemused smiles of the farmers standing nearby. They clearly saw her and Dominic as a couple in love—an illusion she must stop right now. God help her if Ryle or one of his cohorts saw her with Dominic. Ryle's fury would be . . . murderous.

  She pushed aside Dominic's arm. Still walking, she said, "You should not have said such."

  "You do not like to be wooed? Or, were my compliments not fanciful enough for a woman of your extraordinary beauty?"

  Bystanders chuckled. Gisela's face flamed. How mortifying for others to be listening to their conversation. She quickened her pace, almost tripping on her cloak. Exhaling an overly dramatic sigh—which elicited more laughter—Dominic followed.

  Skirting three dogs scrabbling over a chunk of bread dropped by a child, she wondered if he remembered the afternoons they'd spent lying in the lush meadow, or the daisy chains she'd draped around his neck as though he were embraced by tiny suns.

  "Chin up, Gisela," he murmured, matching her strides. "We are almost through the market."

  "A good thing, too," she bit out, "before you resume your wretched flattery."

  "I thought the daisy compliment was quite clever myself."

  She rolled her eyes.

  Dominic chuckled.

  The crowd thinned, and then they reached the market's edge. She strode into the short alley that connected the market to a town street. To the right, a cart rumbled slowly past a line of dilapidated, two-story buildings with shopfronts opening onto the street. With a pinch of dismay, she realized her own tailor's premises looked equally as run-down.

  "Which way?" Dominic glanced both ways down the street.

  "Are we being followed?"

  "Nay."

  Clenching her hands, she faced him. "Are you absolutely certain?"

  His gaze sharpened. "I am."

  Gisela swallowed the fear threatening to snatch her voice. Meeting his gaze, she squared her shoulders. Her cloak's hood slipped farther from her head, revealing more of her face. With unsteady fingers, she yanked the cloth into place. "If there is even the slightest doubt we are being pursued—"