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“Four boats, headed this way.”
The Frenchman’s expression hardened. “Did they give the signal?”
The thug squinted, then nodded.
Crenardieu laughed. With a swirl of his cape, he turned and strode down toward the dock. “Tie de Terre to one of the trees. Shove a rag in his mouth, so he cannot interfere.” Glancing back, he said, “Count your breaths, Dominic, for they are your last.”
CHAPTER 19
When de Lanceau led his contingent of men-at-arms into the dark street by her shop, Gisela fought a rush of panic. Her hands clenched on her horse’s reins. The steady ring of hooves, creak of leather, and chime of bridles became a discordant melody echoing inside her head. Would Ryle still be sprawled on the floor of her home? Or had he and the thugs awakened and overpowered Ada? They might be hiding inside, waiting to attack as Gisela entered.
De Lanceau, astride his huge gray destrier and holding aloft a burning torch, turned to look at her. His long cloak rippled as he moved. “Which shop?”
“The one with the door ajar, milord.”
He frowned at her premises. Even in the predawn darkness, the building appeared run-down, the wooden walls grayed and peeling. With the door ajar, it appeared… deserted.
Nay, never deserted. Apart from Ryle possibly being inside, there were too many memories within, clinging like cobwebs, lingering in the shadows.
Thrusting his torch high, de Lanceau drew his horse to a halt. The men-at-arms halted their mounts, as well. Where once there had been a host of sound, the street fell silent, save for the swish of horses’ tails.
One hand on his sword, de Lanceau dismounted. He motioned his men-at-arms to do likewise. Swallowing down chafing fear, Gisela slid down from her horse and hurried to him.
De Lanceau’s sword hissed from its scabbard. A magnificent weapon. The metal gleamed in the torchlight. Some of his men drew their swords and hurried along the front of her premises to assume a defensive position. Others stood wary and resolute beside their lord.
He glanced at her. “Stay here, Gisela.”
Oh, God, nay. She couldn’t have any deaths upon her conscience. “Milord, what if Ryle is inside? What if—”
“He is no match for my men.” With a brisk tilt of his head, he motioned his warriors to move to either side of the doorway.
Weapons raised, the men pushed in the door. It flew inward, meeting the wall with a crash.
Boots pounded on the boards. Torchlight flickered off the walls. Shouts echoed. The door into her home banged open. More harsh voices.
A moment later, de Lanceau returned to her. “Come inside.”
A command she must obey. Yet, his grim tone—a warning—brought a painful tightness to her chest. Curling her sweaty hands into her skirts, she walked in. The familiar scents and coolness of her shop enveloped her. Her worktable appeared as she’d left it, thread, candles, and implements scattered across the surface.
She stepped into her home. Men-at-arms stood by her trestle table, their presence seeming to suck the air from the interior. As her gaze moved about the room, she gasped.
Her and Ewan’s pallets were slashed by knife marks. Straw was scattered in clumps, obviously ripped from the beds during a screaming rampage. The bench alongside the table lay in pieces. Gouges, like scratches of a dragon’s claws, marred the tabletop.
A hand at her throat, she stepped into her kitchen area. Earthenware shards covered the floor. Judging by the marks on the walls, Ryle had thrown most of the bowls to smash them into insignificant bits.
He had destroyed her home. He’d left his hallmark on each symbol of her independent life.
Pain stabbed through her scarred breast. Pressing her hand to her old wound, she trembled.
“Is this Ryle’s doing?” de Lanceau asked from behind her. Disgust dripped from every word.
She nodded.
“The man has a violent temper.”
A sob welled, but she refused to release it, or the moisture trying to well over her lashes. What Ryle had done was beyond tears. He did not deserve such respect.
How she hated him for the senseless ruination of all she’d worked to establish.
