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Gisela met his keen gaze, hoping he’d realize she couldn’t divulge more with Ewan nearby. “I will be glad to tell you all, when we return.”
His expression sober, thoughtful, he studied her.
“Let me go with you. Please, milord.”
“Gisela, you remind me of my lady wife,” he said softly. “She is equally as stubborn.”
Lady Elizabeth chuckled, a throaty sound rich with love. Leaning forward, she kissed her husband’s cheek.
Gisela pushed to her feet, hope surging inside her. “Milord, do you mean…”
De Lanceau’s mouth ticked up at one corner. His gaze slid to Ewan, then back to her. “My men and I will await you in the bailey. Do not be long.”
“’E looks pretty calm fer a man who’s goin’ ta die.”
Despite his black eye, Dominic glared at the two louts who rode ahead of him carrying burning reed torches to light their route. Glancing back over their shoulders, the men spoke of him as though he were as deaf as a tree. The number of times they’d beaten him over the past night, mayhap he should be.
Swaying to and fro on the back of a lumbering mount, his hands bound behind him, he squinted ahead at the horse-drawn wagon leading the way. The gritty clop of hooves and juddered creaks of the cart carried into the surrounding blackness. Eerily silent, the world seemed to wait in breathless anticipation to see what would happen to him next.
Scowling, he blew away stringy hair fallen across his face. Whatever transpired, he did not intend to die. Not this day, and not at the hands of these bastards.
His gaze fixed on Crenardieu, seated at the front of the wagon. Moments ago, the thugs had hauled Dominic from the cold, fireless wooden hut into the even chillier outdoors and propped him up beside a horse. Before they had forced him up onto the mount, he’d heard the Frenchman speaking to one of his lackeys.
“—bring them back here,” he’d said. “Ryle is to come, as well.” Glancing over at Dominic, the Frenchman had smiled. “Balewyne will enjoy the bloodletting.”
A chill had crawled down Dominic’s spine. Grinning, the lackey had swung up onto his horse, taken a torch handed up to him by another thug, and galloped off.
Then, Crenardieu had drawn aside the canvas sheet covering the wagon bed. Inside, lying in orderly lines, were bolts of shimmering cloth: De Lanceau’s stolen shipment. On the top were the blue silk and garments from Gisela’s shop. After smirking at Dominic, Crenardieu had repositioned the canvas again and ordered his cohorts to move out.
A loud snort reached Dominic. The louts were laughing at him again.
Let them laugh. Not for much longer, by God.
He pointedly blocked out their chuckles and the conversation of the thugs riding close behind him. He shut out the agony in his bones that threatened to steal his consciousness and send him careening off the horse onto the ground. At the same time, he discreetly twisted his tied hands. The rope, pressing against tender wounds, gnawed into his flesh.
His fingertips grazed the knot. Wiggling his fingers, he began to explore the bindings.
The damp, earthy scent of water lingered on the breeze, indicating the river flowed close by. Where, though, in relation to the road they traveled? Dawn hadn’t yet encroached on the shadows, although the first hint of light brushed the sky.
His fingers slid off the knot to touch soft fabric. Silk. The scrap he’d found at Gisela’s and tied around his wrist. He had taken care during his captivity to keep it pushed up his forearm, out of sight. With him sitting upright, it had slipped down to his bonds.
A plan glimmered to life in his mind, just as a loud thump, then a creak, came from ahead. The sniggering thugs instantly sobered.
“Merde,” Crenardieu growled. The wagon rested at an odd angle in the middle of the road. The right back wheel was lodged in a rut.
Holding his torch high, Crenardieu jumped down from the wagon, his cloak billowing behind him like disfigured wings.
“Get down and help!” he bellowed to the two louts ahead of Dominic.
Anticipation whispered inside Dominic with delicious temptation. Two fewer men to guard him. A rare opportunity. If only his wretched bindings were not so tight…
The men dismounted. The taller one motioned to Dominic. “What about ’im?”
“If he tries to escape,” Crenardieu said to the men behind Dominic. “Shoot him with the crossbow.”
Bile burned the back of Dominic’s mouth. He knew exactly how much damage such a weapon could cause, especially at close range. A crossbow wound had almost killed Geoffrey several years ago. A miracle, indeed, that he had survived. Many said he would have died, had his and Lady Elizabeth’s love not been so strong.
The memory of Gisela’s pale, lovely face filled his mind. For her, he would not risk escape now. For her—the chance to see and love her again—he’d leave behind a clue.
