A Knight's Reward (34 page)

Tears dampened her eyes. A filthy gag bound his mouth. His clothes were torn and bloodstained. His swollen face proved the cruelty he had endured.

Cut him free!
her mind screamed.
Quickly. Get him to safety. Later, you can talk, kiss him, and weep over his wounds
.

Biting her bottom lip, Gisela moved directly behind him. She slipped her sewing shears from her satchel and nudged the blades against his bindings.

A muffled
hiss
broke from him. He fought to look at her.

“Hold still,” she whispered, squeezing his fingers in reassurance.

His body went utterly still. “Mffmmm?”

“Aye. De Lanceau is here, too, with his men-at-arms.” She dared a glance at the riverbank. The men continued talking and loading the boats. None of Crenardieu’s thugs had noticed her. “Do not move. I will cut you free.”

She tried not to look at the bruises coloring his wrists, the flesh worn raw by ropes and . . . God knew what else.

He made a low sound of distress. A sound that, somehow, conveyed every physical pain and frustration he experienced.

With careful snips, she cut the ropes. Each metallic
clip
of the shears raised the hairs on her nape, for at any moment, Crenardieu’s men might hear.

Moments seemed to stretch into the space of tormented breaths before the ropes finally fell away from Dominic’s wrists. Dropping to her knees, she cut the rest of his bindings. She rose, tucking the shears back into her bag.

Dominic stood before her, yanking away the gag. For a breathless instant, she could only stare at him. Words, jamming together, bubbled inside her. What did she say to him? How did she begin to convey the emotions knotting up inside her with excruciating intensity?

In two strides, he crossed to her. His arms closed around her. A sound like a sob broke from him before his hungry lips closed over hers.

She kissed him back, frenzied, ravenous, tasting his pain and uncertainties. Each sweep of her tongue, each gasped breath, told him of her anguish at being apart. “Dominic,” she whispered between kisses. “Oh, Dominic.”

He shuddered against her. “Thank God you are all right.”

“What they did to you—”

“Do not speak of it now.” Catching her hand, he linked his fingers through hers. “We must get you away from here. Any moment, Ryle is coming to kill me.”

“But—”

Moisture glistened in his eyes. “Gisela, please. I lo—”

A roar erupted behind them.

Dominic spun around, blocking her with his body. Yet, in the moment before he whirled to protect her, she saw Ryle standing by the tree. Less than three steps away.

Ryle tossed aside the flask in his hand. Men crashed through the brush, surrounding them. Her fingers still entwined with Dominic’s, Gisela pressed against him, terror’s bitter taste scalding her mouth.

“Bring them out here,” Crenardieu said, his drawn sword gleaming. Thugs seized Gisela’s arms, while Ryle and two others grabbed hold of Dominic. They dragged both of them onto the expanse of ground leading down to the dock.

Gisela straightened, shivering when Crenardieu’s hard gaze fixed upon her.

“How did you come here?” he demanded.

“I rode my horse.”

“Alone?” He adjusted his grip on his weapon. “How did you find this place?”

Dominic wavered on his feet. Ryle jerked hard on his arm, causing him to lurch forward. Dominic gasped. His face contorted with pain.

“Stop!” Gisela shrieked. “He is wounded enough.”

Ryle’s lips drew back in a cruel smile. “I have not even begun to hurt him.”

Fear seared through her, along with the urge to lower her gaze, to acknowledge Ryle’s power over her. If she looked away, he might be merciful.

Nay!
She couldn’t let Ryle win. For those she loved, she would not yield.

Forcing her trembling chin higher, she stared at him. Her eyes burned. Her body shook, betraying her inner turmoil. But, she did not look away. “Do not hurt Dominic.”

Slowly lowering his hand from Dominic’s arm, Ryle laughed. His teeth, yellowed like a dragon’s, glinted in the sunlight. “You will stop me?”

“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, Ryle 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.”