Knights of Valor

by Denise Domning

  The bench creaked as Dominic stretched back farther. "Why not?"

  She straightened to glare at him. "'Tis a lie."

  "Is it?"

  Gisela's mouth tightened. Did he take her for a fool? "I have never seen a dragon. Nor has anyone else I know. Do you mean to tell me such creatures with fangs and wings are real?"

  An indulgent grin softened Dominic's mouth. "Dragons come in many shapes and sizes, Gisela. Some are loud and dangerous. Others, more insidious."

  Loud, dangerous, and insidious. All of those qualities applied to Ryle.

  "What I am trying to say," he went on, his tone quiet yet intense, "is that not all dragons are fire-breathing monsters with wings and fangs. Some come in the guise of fellow men and women. Some could be better described as obstacles that keep us from what we desire most. However, they are dragons just the same."

  There was such truth to his words—which meant he, too, had encountered dragons that had scarred him. His father and stepmother. The Saracens he'd faced on the eastern battlefields. All fit his description of dragons. So did the men he'd fought today.

  "What you imply, then," she said, "is that your wounds were caused by a brush with two angry dragons."

  A wry smile tilted Dominic's mouth. "Something like that."

  She arched an eyebrow. "The cut on your cheek was caused by a scratch from a dragon's claw?"

  "Nay, a blow from a wing, I vow," Dominic said.

  "And your hurt ribs?"

  "A consequence of trying to climb up the dragon's back. I planned to run up its scaly spine to its head and stab out its eyes, but it threw me off."

  She smiled. "A dangerous ploy."

  "I have never been afraid of a little danger."

  His words ended on a velvety huskiness that reminded her of a lazy afternoon long ago, especially the breathless moment before he'd kissed her and eased her down in the sweet-scented grass. A tingling sensation skittered across her breasts.

  Quite apart from his voice's raw sensuality, he spoke with hidden meaning. He told her, in his own way, that she could confide in him. He would help her vanquish her dragons.

  A silent cry welled up inside her. How she wished she could melt into his embrace, tell him all that had happened to her and why she couldn't trust anyone. He, of all people, deserved to know. However, she simply . . . could not.

  Dominic's intense gaze had not left her face. A painful sense of vulnerability—of unbearable longing for him—swept through her.

  Somehow, she forced a careless grin. "Well, Sir Dominic the Mighty Dragon Slayer," she said, "we had best take care of your wounds before they fester."

  Remorse glimmered in his eyes for a moment before he nodded.

  Gisela picked up several long, linen strips. "If you remove your tunic, I will bind your ribs."

  He reached for his garment's hem. As his hands moved, she had a sudden memory of him taking off his tunic in the meadow. He'd drawn the garment over his head and then tossed it aside, revealing the sun-bronzed planes of his torso. Dark, curly hair sprinkled across his chest. For a vivid, stunning moment, she recalled the springy texture of that hair beneath her palm and the heat of his muscled body as he lay back in the long grasses, his lop-sided grin encouraging her to explore his nakedness.

  Drawing in a shaky breath, she blinked down at the table. She fiddled with the other bandages, barely seeing them, trying to force aside the tantalizing image in her mind.

  Beside her came a whispering sound, followed by a gasp. "God's blood," Dominic groaned.

  She dropped the bandages and turned to face him. His tunic bunched about his raised arms, imprisoning his movements. The lower part of his face hidden by the fabric, Dominic gazed at her with desperation.

  "I am as helpless as a trussed rooster."

  An astonishing thought. She laughed.

  Dominic scowled and wiggled his arms, clearly trying to shift the tight fabric. He groaned again.

  "Careful! Your ribs—"

  He grunted like Ewan in one of his petulant moments. "You must help me."

  "Of course. Hold still."

  She moved closer. His thigh was no more than two fingers' width from her legs. But, she stopped short of physical contact. That, she couldn't do.

  From his tangle of tunic, he mumbled, "How mortifying. I cannot even undress myself."

  She smiled. "I will not tell anyone."

  "Especially Ewan. If he knew that I was not in truth a brave, skilled knight, but a helpless idiot—"

  Gisela rolled her eyes. "Dominic." Leaning forward, she reached for his tunic's hem. Simple to catch hold of the right side, but the left . . .

  Fighting the urge to blush, she reached across his splayed legs. 'Twould be much easier to stand between his parted limbs, but . . . she simply could not be so brazen. Biting down on her lip, she groped for the tunic's left edge.

  "Be sure you grab the right sections of cloth, Gisela."

  She huffed. "Do not be ridiculous." Her fingers were nowhere near any part of him that might be inappropriate.

  Especially that part.

  Oh, God! Why did she even think about that part of Dominic?

  Her face burned. She hoped Ada and Ewan did not walk in while she helped Dominic, or she would owe them a very good explanation.

  "I was only trying to be helpful," Dominic said, his voice close to her ear.

  Ha! Indeed.

  Her fingers slipped over his bare waist, tempting her with the feel of taut muscles and his skin's smooth warmth. Tamping down a shiver, she caught hold of the left side of his tunic. "Keep still," she said, more briskly than intended, while she began to draw up the hem.

  The movement caught her off balance. Gisela felt herself pitch forward. She must not fall onto him!

  With a startled squawk, she let go and stumbled back.

  Dominic sighed. "Gisela—"

  Impatience thinned his voice. The effort of holding his arms up at an awkward angle was no doubt aggravating his injuries.

  Her fault, for being foolish.

  Shoving aside her inhibitions, she stepped around his right leg, into the vee between his legs. The fabric of his hose brushed against her gown, a sensuous pull of cloth against cloth.

  His gaze sharpened. "I did not think you would come so close."

  "'Twill be easiest to remove your tunic," she said matter-of-factly, glad her tone did not betray the tiny tremors racing through her.

  "Mmm."

  Bending at the waist, she reached for his tunic's hem again. At this angle, her forehead bumped against his raised arms. When her fingers skated over his bared waist again, his breath rushed out on a hiss.

  Ignoring a fresh wave of awareness, she slowly drew the material up. With gentle movements, she eased out one of his arms, then the other, and pulled the tunic over his head. It landed on the table with a muted plop.

  He blew out a relieved groan. His arms lowered to his sides, drawing her gaze to his bare chest. His tanned skin flowed over honed muscles. Several pinkish scars marked his torso—healed wounds from past dragon fights. None, though, as deep as the scar on her breast.

  She swallowed hard, sensing his keen gaze upon her. Look away, Gisela. You are a commoner, and 'tis not proper to stare. Dominic is no longer your lover. He belongs to a lady.

  Oh, God, but she couldn't tear her gaze away. Her fingers ached to journey over his skin in a deliberate caress, to trace each scar and rejoice he was still alive, and to discover whether the memories she cherished of him were still true. How she longed to touch him.

  Do not, Gisela. Do not!

  She started to turn away.

  With faint scrapes, his booted legs shifted inward. Trapping her.

  She gasped. Her gaze locked with his.

  Crossing his arms over his naked chest, Dominic smiled up at her.

  "Dominic—"

  "My limbs felt very weak," he said with a mischievous little grin. "Thank you for helping me to regain my strength."

  W
hat cheek! "Release me."

  "Aye, Sweet Daisy. When you tell me why you are so afeared."

  Sweet Daisy. His special name for her long ago.

  Rebellion and desire warred inside her. He had no right to imprison her in such a manner. However, the lovesick, lonely part of her yearned to surrender to his demand. To draw strength from his strength and risk confiding in him. To know that for one, brief moment, she didn't have to shoulder all of her burdens alone.

  "Go on, Gisela," Dominic said, his voice as soft as the luxurious silk Varden Crenardieu had delivered to her days ago, now hidden in the storage area under her shop's floor. "We are alone," Dominic went on. "No one else will know what you tell me."

  Warmth from his legs seeped through her gown's thin wool. How easy 'twould be to lean forward, slide her arms around his neck, and melt against him.

  Once she confided in him, though, she could not take the words back. They would flood out, as blood had gushed from her breast and stained her bodice crimson. He would know, then, how very different she was from the woman he'd loved years ago.

  He might be driven to confront Ryle . . . and then Dominic would die.

  Gisela's heart ached. She mentally stitched together her resolve and leveled him a cool look. "Your wounds are more important right now than what I would tell you."

  He smiled. The sly twist of his mouth suggested she wouldn't deter him that easily. "My wounds will still be there after you have confided in me."

  She almost laughed at the stubborn tilt of his jaw. Setting her hands on her hips, she frowned at him. "Why do you insist on being a difficult patient? You are in my home, Dominic. I vow you owe me an explanation. Most of all, why you were in disguise."

  He chuckled. "What a tough little daisy you have become."

  Out of necessity, her mind answered, for Ewan. She flattened her lips to smother the words and reached over to snatch up a linen bandage. Dangling it in front of him, she said, "'Twould be easiest to bind your ribs if you stand."

  He squinted up at her for a long moment. "As you command, Sweet Daisy. While you tend me, I will confide my secrets to you. Then, you will share yours with me."

  Dominic pushed himself up from the bench, gritting his teeth against the sensation of daggers piercing his ribs. Gisela's scent still lingered in the space she'd vacated the instant he'd eased his legs apart. She'd shot away like an arrow fired from a bow.

  Now, she stood a short distance from him. She twisted the bandage around her slender fingers, fashioning the length of cloth to her purpose before she neared him again. Gnawing the lush curve of her bottom lip, she examined his ribs before closing her eyes on a little sigh. A sound of reluctance.

  Disappointment dulled the awareness still sparking in his veins. Had she changed her mind about treating him because he'd entrapped her?

  Before he could ask, she quickly stepped forward, extended her arms on either side of his torso, and stretched the bandage out behind him. For the barest moment, her breasts brushed his chest before she drew back, binding the cloth around his rib cage.

  He inhaled sharply, stunned by the sensations elicited by that brief contact.

  She paused. "Did I hurt you?"

  Aye, you are causing me tremendous torment.

  "Nay, Daisy. I am deciding where, exactly, I should begin my tale."

  Gisela stood so close, he could dip his chin and kiss the crown of her head. Her tresses shimmered like the purest gold, while her fragrance drifted to him, delicate, yet . . . captivating. Her essence, as sweet as wildflower nectar, tantalized him in a way no other woman's had, before or after her. "It sounds very important," she murmured, slipping more of the linen around his torso. When her warm fingertips brushed his spine, he shuddered.

  "Indeed, 'tis," he said, clearing the huskiness from his voice. "I would not have been in disguise otherwise."

  Her hand stilled. "Dominic, were you involved in some kind of misdeed?"

  Nay, but I may be, if you keep tormenting me with your hands.

  Mentally sweeping away his inappropriate thoughts, he smiled down at her. "I am not a hunted criminal, if that is what you ask. I came to Clovebury because I was ordered here by my good friend and lord, Geoffrey de Lanceau."

  "The Lord de Lanceau? Who lives with his lady wife and son at Branton Keep?"

  "The same." Dominic could not contain a proud grin. "As you probably know, Geoffrey is lord of most of Moydenshire."

  Awe glistened in her eyes. As well as an inkling of . . . dread?

  "So," she said, "you are his spy."

  Dominic nodded.

  She exhaled a shaky breath. Her fingers felt damp against his skin. Ah. He had startled her with his revelation. Knowing he was a man of great importance, she viewed him differently. She probably worried about botching the bandaging.

  He must reassure her immediately. "I am still the same Dominic you knew long ago," he said, "despite my allegiance to de Lanceau."

  She did not look at all convinced. After tying the bandage, she reached for another. "If I may ask, what brings you to Clovebury? Did you come to investigate the recent spate of robberies?"

  A frown touched Dominic's brow. "I did not know of such robberies."

  Shaking her head, Gisela continued her bandaging. "Many of the shop owners fear their premises will be broken into and their goods destroyed. The break-ins usually happen at night, and are committed either by local thugs or vagrants. The potter's shop is among those recently vandalized." Raising her gaze, she said, "He is a good friend of the baker's."

  "A good reason, then, for him to distrust strangers," Dominic said.

  Surprise widened her gaze before she again lowered her lashes, golden against her fair skin. When her fingers touched his torso, and an answering shiver broke through him, he said, "My quest for de Lanceau could well be connected to these robberies. However, I do not know yet. I have been tasked, you see, to discover who stole Geoffrey's shipment of cloth sent to him by river."

  "What kind of cloth?"

  "Silks. Bolts of the finest, most luxurious fabric . . ."

  His voice trailed off. She gaped up at him with a most curious expression: a touching blend of suspicion and dismay.

  Her mouth, parted on a silent gasp, snapped shut. Blinking hard, she again looked at his bandages. But, from her distant gaze, he guessed her thoughts were not on this moment, but elsewhere.

  "Gisela?"

  "Mmm?"

  He caught hold of her upper arms. She stiffened. Her hands, about to sweep the linen around his back again, dropped to his torso. The warmth of her fingers pressed to his skin . . .

  He must not allow himself to be distracted.

  "Do you know about the stolen silks?"

  A sharp little laugh broke from her. "Me? Why would I?"

  "You are a tailor. You earn your living from making garments."

  Her gaze fell to her hands, curled against his chest. She gnawed her lip again. "Dominic—"

  "I only ask, Gisela, because a client may have asked you about sewing garments from silk." He gently squeezed her arms. "Not because I suspect you are involved with stealing Geoffrey's shipments or any other wrongdoing."

  A shaky breath rushed between her lips. She slowly nodded. "If I seem . . . shocked," she said, each word spoken with care, "'tis because I hate to think there are folk in this town—a place I consider my home—who would steal from Lord de Lanceau." Her throat moved with a swallow. "I cannot believe it."

  "'Tis the truth."

  Her body quivered in his hold, proof of how much the thought unnerved her. "Is that why you were disguised as a peddler? To try to find the thieves?"

  Dominic nodded. "Geoffrey decided 'twas the best approach for now, rather than send out a contingent of men-at-arms. The thieves might run, then, with the silks—making it more difficult to find the stolen cloth. 'Tis vital to recover all of the missing bolts." He grinned. "I hoped to linger about the market, to eavesdrop on the local gossipers. Then, I saw you."

>   A flush stained her face. "I thwarted your plans."

  "Nay. Merely delayed them." Squeezing her arms one more time, he released her and glanced down at his bandages. "Are you almost done?"

  "Aye." With gentle hands, she resumed wrapping the linen about his ribs. Not too tight. Loose enough for his chest to expand and constrict with each breath. As though, somehow, she knew the secrets of good bandaging. Of course, having a rambunctious son, she'd likely learned by tending his wounds.

  "If you hear any word about the silks—or mayhap a customer brings some to you to be made into clothes—you will tell me, aye?"

  "Few in Clovebury have the means to buy silk, Dominic," she said quietly.

  "Geoffrey's shipment is in this town somewhere. It left the town farther upriver, but did not reach Branton. Clovebury is the only riverfront town in between."

  After knotting the last bandage, she tucked the ends into the rest of the wrappings. "How does that feel?"

  "Much better. Thank you."

  "If you sit again, I will tend your jaw."

  He almost answered that he could tend the injury himself—even a simpleton could rub on some salve—but he found himself dropping back down on the bench. Holding the pot, she leaned closer and dabbed ointment on his wound.

  The salve's strong scent assailed him. Yet, it carried the soft undertone of her fragrance. A reminder that she, above all, was the reason he spoke of the silks in the first place.

  "What I have told you about Geoffrey's stolen cloth, you must keep to yourself," he said in clear warning. "You must tell no one."

  One hand on his chin, she was leaning back to inspect his wound. Her gaze slid to his. "I will not."

  "That is a solemn oath, Gisela, healer of Sir Dominic the Mighty Dragon Slayer?"

  She rolled her eyes and laughed. "'Tis."

  "Good." He smiled at her. "Now, Gisela, 'tis your turn to share your confidence with me. Tell me what—or whom—you fear."

  Refusal, scalding like hot soup, rose in Gisela's throat. The salve on her fingers suddenly felt cold, as if a breeze had invaded her home and chilled her skin. Breaking her gaze from Dominic's, she stepped from between his legs, pressed the stopper into the pot, and set it down on the table.