Knights of Valor

by Denise Domning

  "Aye."

  "You?" He laughed. The men around them chortled.

  She sensed his fluctuating mood, smelled the drink he'd consumed. She also saw his fingers curling. Before she could turn her face away, his fist slammed into her jaw.

  "Gisela!" Dominic cried.

  The impact snapped her head back, smacking it into the face of the man behind her.

  "My nose!" Releasing her, he clutched at his face.

  Pain seared through the side of Gisela's face. She reached up to touch it, hot, angry tears welling in her eyes. Through blurred vision, she saw Dominic struggling against the two men who pinned him. Twisting free, he punched Ryle in the stomach. Ryle grunted and clutched at his belly. He straightened, massaging his gut. His hand reached to his belt.

  He drew out a knife.

  Oh, God! Oh, God!

  Icy fear rushed through Gisela. She stared at the dagger. She tried to move, to wipe away the sickly sweat beading on her brow, but her limbs seemed paralyzed.

  Oh, God! Oh, God!

  Sounds broke through the shrill humming in her ears. Battle cries, emanating from the forest. De Lanceau's men streamed out of the woods.

  "Crenardieu!" a lackey yelled.

  More shouts, followed by the clang of swords. De Lanceau's men split into two groups. Following their lord, some of the guards raced toward those surrounding her and Dominic. Aldwin and the others charged down to the dock.

  Halting a few paces away, de Lanceau glared at Ryle. "Put down the dagger."

  "Who in hellfire are you?" Ryle sneered.

  "Geoffrey de Lanceau, Lord of Branton Keep."

  Ryle spat on the ground. "I know your name well—"

  "Ryle!" Crenardieu said, warning in his glare.

  "—for you ruined my cloth business. You ruined me!"

  As Ryle's fingers flexed on the knife, Gisela's hand flew to her aching scar. Down by the docks, swords clashed. A man screamed, followed by a splash. Ryle, too, would not yield without a fight. Men would die before this battle ended.

  De Lanceau's face hardened with anger. "Balewyne, set down your knife. The rest of you, throw down your weapons. You are all under arrest. No one steals my cloth and sells it to other merchants."

  "Arrest him!" Ryle shouted, thrusting a finger at Dominic. "I caught him with my wife, embracing and kissing her. A moment more, and they would have been fornicating there in the woods. Ask the others. They saw, too."

  "Gisela is not your wife," Dominic said. "You do not deserve her."

  "I married her. By law she is mine. She will obey me as her wedded husband."

  "Never," Gisela said, resolve giving her voice. "Never again."

  Wrath lit Ryle's eyes. "Shut up!"

  "You shut up," Dominic shot back. "By law, you never were her husband."

  "Lying bastard!"

  Gisela shuddered at the violence of Ryle's tone, even as a brittle laugh broke from Dominic. Waving a hand at the surrounding men, he said, "Admit it, if you have the ballocks. Your marriage was never consummated."

  Gisela's breath locked in her lungs. Oh, Dominic! Beware!

  "That means your and Gisela's marriage is not—and never was—legally binding."

  Ryle's face turned scarlet. "I care not what you say. She is my wife."

  Arching an eyebrow, Dominic said, "Nay. You were not man enough to make her so. Not on your wedding night, or any instance after that."

  A wary scowl creased Crenardieu's brow. "How would you know?"

  "Gisela told me."

  Sucking in a furious gasp, Ryle glared at her. He looked angry enough to exhale flames.

  Crenardieu swallowed as though to rid his mouth of a foul taste. "C'est impossible. Ryle has a son—"

  "Nay," Dominic ground out.

  "—whom he sold to me for fifty silver coins. To help pay off some of his debts."

  "Sold? Like an animal?" Gisela glared at Ryle. Disgust rose so hot within her, she almost choked on it. "How could you?"

  "Easily," Ryle bellowed. "The sniveling little whelp—"

  "How dare you speak of him so?" Fury crackled in Dominic's voice. "His name is Ewan. He is a clever, ambitious boy who deserves his sire's love. A son who will know the truth about his father."

  "I am his father," Ryle said, spittle whitening his lips. "He is my son. I do with him as I please."

  Dominic's hands balled into fists. He clearly fought to restrain his temper.

  Ryle pointed at Gisela. "She birthed my son."

  Dominic shook his head. "Gisela bore my son."

  "What?" Crenardieu said.

  "Ewan is my child." Dominic's steady, determined gaze slid to Gisela, and tingling warmth swirled in her belly. "Tell these men how you conceived him that day in the meadow when we made love, days before I left for crusade. Tell them how your family forced you to marry Ryle to spare them the shame of an unwed, pregnant daughter."

  His impassioned tone brought fresh tears to her eyes. "'Tis true," she said.

  "Including what Dominic said about your marriage not being consummated?" asked de Lanceau.

  Heat burned her face. Refusing to acknowledge Ryle's lethal glower, she said, "Aye."

  "Bitch!" Ryle roared. He raised his knife.

  In a blur of movement, Dominic lunged, catapulting into Ryle. Crenardieu spun, his cloak whirling about him. The clank of swords echoed, followed by pounded footfalls. Glancing over her shoulder, Gisela spied the Frenchman running to the dock, de Lanceau's men in pursuit.

  "Dominic!" de Lanceau yelled. As the two fighting men broke apart, he tossed Dominic a knife, then raced down to the riverbank.

  Dominic drew the dagger and tossed the leather sheath aside.

  Ryle chuckled. A terrifying sound.

  Gisela dried her sweat-coated palms on her gown. Ryle must not win this fight. He must not triumph to ride away from this place, boasting how he vanquished de Lanceau's most loyal, trusted knight. Weakened, wounded, Dominic would soon tire, and then . . .

  A sickening realization filled her. A decision.

  She swallowed down a surge of bile. Reaching into her satchel, she drew out her sewing shears. Her only weapon. Yet, 'twould do.

  With a gruesome snarl, Ryle swung the knife toward Dominic.

  Dominic dodged, his reactions obviously slowed by his injuries. "You missed."

  Snarling again, Ryle lashed out. His dagger flashed. Dominic jumped back, avoiding the strike. However, Ryle lunged forward again, grazing Dominic's shoulder. His slashed tunic gaped, revealing a light cut across his shoulder blade. Dominic winced.

  His face twisting into a grin, Ryle again poised the dagger.

  "Ryle!" Gisela shrieked.

  His breathing harsh, he turned to face her. Blood glistened on the knife's tip. Memories of his slashing her breast, months ago, tore through her mind.

  Her blood that night. Dominic's today.

  Never again.

  His dagger still raised to strike, Ryle glanced at Dominic. Blood staining his shoulder, sweat streaming down his face, Dominic stared back. How ashen he looked. She sensed the tremendous effort it cost him to fight.

  Ryle's lip curled, and Gisela fought a despairing cry. She knew with absolute certainty that this time, he meant for Dominic to die.

  She tightened her grip on her sewing shears. "'Tis me you want, Ryle."

  "Gisela!" Dominic rasped. "Do not goad him."

  Aye, she would—must—goad him, as a knight would provoke a dragon. "I ran away," she went on, as Ryle's eyes cinched into slits. "Remember how I left you? Remember how I betrayed you?"

  Ryle glowered at her. "I remember."

  She edged closer, holding the shears against her skirt. "Never again will I run from you."

  "Gisela!" Dominic gasped.

  Surprise widened Ryle's eyes. His knife wavered, and his face twisted into an expression akin to anguish. "At last, will you love me?"

  Love him?! "Nay. Always, I will love Dominic."

  Throwing his head back, R
yle roared like an angry dragon. The very moment his body began to swivel toward Dominic, she rushed forward. Raised the shears. Slammed them down into Ryle's chest. Stumbled back.

  He dragged in a shrill, disbelieving gasp. Gaped at the wrought-iron handles protruding from his torso. Blood oozed in a crimson stain.

  Moaning, he clutched at the shears. "Look what you have done!"

  "She has killed a dragon," Dominic murmured.

  Ryle fell to his knees. Swayed. "Bitch!" he spluttered, his voice trailing off on another moan.

  His gaze lost focus. Dimmed. His lips parted, as if to spit his last words. With a gurgled hiss, he collapsed sideways on the ground and lay still.

  Sobs welled inside Gisela. She pressed her hands over her breast, unable to tear her gaze away from Ryle's corpse and the blood seeping into the dirt.

  "Gisela." Dominic slid an arm around her waist.

  The sob burst free, becoming a wail.

  "Gisela," he said again, gently turning her so she faced him. Holding her close, he kissed her hair, her brow, the side of her cheek.

  Sobs racked her body. Leaning against him, she wept like a woman lost.

  Nay, she was not lost. Finally, she was free. She was alive, in the arms of the man she loved. Never again would she live in fear of Ryle.

  Trembling, she looked up at Dominic. Tears ran down his face. He didn't speak, but his gaze seemed to convey every tangled thought and emotion coursing through her.

  Dipping his head, he kissed her, very gently.

  "I killed him," she whispered. "I took . . . his life."

  "You saved mine—and no doubt, the lives of others." With a small grunt of pain, Dominic hugged her tighter. "You were incredibly brave, Gisela."

  "I agree." De Lanceau strode toward them, sheathing his broadsword.

  "You saw what happened?" Dominic asked.

  De Lanceau nodded, and Gisela shuddered as his gaze settled upon her. "You may be common born," he said with a smile, "but you are as noble as any highborn lady."

  "Gisela, the Fair Lady Warrior," Dominic added with a wink.

  She smiled, and de Lanceau chuckled.

  Shouts drew her attention to the riverbank. Standing by the dock, their hands bound, a scowling Crenardieu and the London merchants stood under the watchful guard of de Lanceau's men-at-arms. Three thugs lay dead, their bodies sprawled in the shallows. Aldwin stood on the dock, relaying orders while helping the other men transfer the silks from the boats back into the wagon.

  "We will soon return to Branton Keep," Gisela said, unable to stop her voice from catching. How she longed to take her little boy in her arms and hug him, to rejoice in knowing that at last, he was safe from Ryle. But, upon her return, she must accept her punishment from de Lanceau.

  Dominic eased her away. "A word, milord." Touching her sleeve, he said, "I will be only a moment."

  She watched him stride away, speaking in low tones to de Lanceau. She hugged herself, unable to stifle a chill. How handsome Dominic looked, despite his tattered garments and wounds. Naught could disguise his noble strength. Standing beside de Lanceau, he clearly belonged among the highborn. Far beyond her common reach.

  Loneliness pressed down upon her, crushing her earlier bloom of relief. Whatever her fate, she would accept it.

  De Lanceau nodded and grinned. Then, he clapped Dominic on the shoulder before they walked back to her.

  "I have considered all that occurred today," de Lanceau said, warmth in his compelling gray gaze. "Above all, the fact that you selflessly risked your own life to save Dominic's. I have also taken into regard your earlier revelations at Branton Keep and at your home."

  Gisela bit down on her lip. "Aye, milord."

  I have sentenced you to my dungeon for the rest of your living days.

  "While I cannot condone all of your decisions, I believe you did what was necessary to protect not only your own life, but that of your young son." He paused. "Dominic's child."

  Blinking hard, she nodded.

  "Therefore—"

  Please, God, let him be merciful. Please, do not take Ewan from me. Please, please . . .

  "—since your decisions were made for the well-being of his son—"

  Please, please!

  "I leave any punishment entirely up to Dominic."

  Exhaling a stunned breath, Gisela said, "Dominic?"

  Slipping his arm around her waist, he kissed her cheek. "Since I am heartily glad Ryle is dead, you kept my son safe from his murderous rage, and all of Geoffrey's silks were recovered"—he shrugged—"I see only one resolution, really."

  She gasped. "Oh!" Then she frowned. "What resolution?"

  De Lanceau clapped his hands together. "'Tis settled, then."

  Confusion bubbled up inside Gisela. "Dominic?"

  Mischief glinted in his eyes. "We will discuss it, Sweet Daisy, on our return to Branton Keep."

  Seated behind Gisela on her horse, Dominic took her to the meadow close to Branton Keep. The castle, standing on the nearby hill, looked down over the expansive field brightened by poppies, daisies, and cornflowers.

  Four times she'd asked that he reveal her fate.

  Four times, smothering a smile, he'd refused.

  After drawing the horse to a halt in the middle of the meadow, he slid down, and then helped her dismount. Leaving the animal to graze, he caught Gisela's hand. He led her farther into the wildflowers and grasses, rousing butterflies and bumblebees as he walked.

  "Dominic, please! Will you tell me now?"

  She sounded so frantic, he paused and faced her. How beautiful she was standing amid the flowers, her hair tangled from their ride. She looked even more lovely than years ago. He fought the desire to pull her into his arms, kiss her until her mouth was as red as poppies, and then draw her down among the grasses.

  Instead, he slipped his hand from hers and picked a daisy.

  "I cannot bear not knowing," she said.

  "Very well." He handed her the bloom. "I never want us to be apart again."

  She took the daisy. Elation filled her eyes, but also painful doubt.

  "Never again," he whispered, reaching for her.

  She hesitated, her eyes brimming with tears. Then, with a sobbed sigh, she melted into his embrace. His lips found hers, and he kissed her, deeply, urgently, starved for her essence.

  Placing her hands on either side of his face, she kissed him back. Without restraint. With a hunger that roused his to a fever pitch. Groaning, he urged her down to the ground. She lay on her back, while, careful of his wounds, he reclined beside her, one hand clasping hers. "I love you, Gisela."

  She gazed up at him, tears shimmering on her lashes. "As I love you."

  "Marry me."

  She froze. Her throat moved with an awkward swallow before she said, "'Tis impossible. I am a commoner."

  "I care not. Neither does de Lanceau. He is in favor of our marriage. As a wedding gift, he will award me one of his small estates." He kissed her hand. "My mother would be proud."

  "Aye, she would." Gisela's lips formed a shaky smile. "So, I vow, would your father."

  Indeed, he might. But, at this moment, Dominic had more important matters to consider.

  A dull ache spread through his chest. Gisela hadn't accepted his proposal. Did she not wish to wed him?

  "Please, Gisela, marry me. You are the mother of my son. The woman who saved my life." He pressed her fingers. "I want no one else."

  "Oh, Dominic." She sniffled. Gently touching his bruised face, she whispered, "How many nights I dreamed of lying with you again. Of being together."

  His brow creased in a mock frown. "Hmm. Are you saying 'aye' to my proposal?"

  "Hmm . . ." she repeated, mischief in her eyes. "I believe . . . Aye."

  "At last," he murmured, sweeping his lips over hers.

  Gisela smiled up at him, joy in her eyes. "Ewan will be so excited."

  "I cannot wait to tell him he is my son." Dominic imagined the little boy's face brighten
ing when they told him the news. How Dominic looked forward to embracing his son. To teaching him the nuances of swordplay, archery, and . . .

  "Imagine," he said. "A family of warriors."

  She giggled, and he kissed her again, with all the love pouring from his soul. His hands trembling, he removed her garments until she lay naked before him. With a coy smile, she helped him remove his tunic and hose. Then, the linen bandages still wrapped around his ribs.

  As the extent of his beatings was revealed, concern filled her gaze, but Dominic firmly shook his head. "Our lovemaking may not be quite as . . . lusty on this occasion"—he winked—"but my wounds will heal quickly."

  "They will," she agreed, "for I will ensure they do." While she spoke, her fingers brushed the swollen heat of him, as though discovering him anew. Closing his eyes, Dominic shuddered with pleasure. How he had missed coupling with her.

  Leaning forward, he kissed her throat, shoulder blade, and the valley between her breasts.

  Her hands flitted up to cover her scar.

  "Gisela." He nibbled her fingers before drawing them away. Anguish clouded her gaze, but he kissed her scar's ragged line. "You are more beautiful to me now, Sweet Daisy."

  "Really?" she whispered.

  He nodded. "This scar is a mark of honor. Proof of the dragon you battled—and defeated."

  Kissing her again, he moved over her. When their bodies touched, she sighed and arched up, answering the bold insistence of his manhood. "Aye, Dominic," she whispered. "Aye."

  He slid into her. Groaned.

  Ah, God!

  A ragged cry broke from her. "Dominic," she whimpered.

  And he was lost.

  As he surrendered to the rhythm of long ago, he savored the joy of pleasuring Gisela. The relief they would never again be apart. The knowledge that, at long last, she belonged to him.

  The greatest reward of all.

  Award-winning author Catherine Kean has always loved tales of heroic knights and stubborn damsels. Her debut medieval historical romance, Dance of Desire, was the launch title of Medallion Press's Sapphire Jewel Imprint. Dance of Desire won two Reviewer's Choice Awards, Best Medieval in industry review magazine Affaire de Coeur's 2006 Reader-Writers' Poll, and finaled in four contests for published romance novelists.