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Ryle glanced about the riverbank. “Where is he?”

“Dominic?” Crenardieu waved an indolent hand in his direction.

When Ryle’s furious gaze fixed on him, Dominic refused to avert his gaze. Never would he admit to the fear crawling down into his gut.

Ryle’s hands clenched, as though squeezing around someone’s neck. “I cannot wait to⁠—”

“And you shall. First, let us be done with the cloth.”

“You deal with the merchants,” Ryle growled. “I will finish him.”

“Nay, leave him.” Stopping Ryle with a firm hand upon his arm, Crenardieu said, “I will not have you scaring off my buyers. Your grudge will wait.” His lips curled in a depraved smile. “He cannot escape. He will still be there when the merchants row their boats away.” Glancing down at the dock, he said, “Let us offer our help, shall we? The sooner the cloth is loaded into the boats, the sooner we can kill him.”

Ryle did not move. Drinking again, he stared at Dominic, loathing blazing in his eyes.

“Do not be a fool,” Crenardieu sneered and strode on ahead. With reluctant strides, Ryle followed.

Twisting his hands, Dominic struggled again with his bonds. Gisela and Ewan had escaped Ryle, but where had they gone? He had to find them. He had to.

He exhaled a sharp breath through his nostrils and focused on the knot. Over the rough scraping of rope, he heard a rustling sound behind him.

He froze. Listened.

The noise originated from the ground.

An animal? Nay. More likely one of Crenardieu’s thugs, sneaking up behind him to indulge in the first stab.

He jerked his head sideways, trying to see.

Cold metal pressed against his wrists.

Thrusting up his hand, de Lanceau drew his horse to a halt. His men immediately reined in their mounts.

Gisela’s pulse lurched into a more urgent rhythm. She, too, had heard the shout. “Milord,” she said. “’Twas Ryle. He yells like that when drunk.”

Crenardieu’s lackey shifted on his horse.

De Lanceau tipped his head, a slight but deliberate gesture. The closest man-at-arms whacked the thug on the back of the head. With a groan, he slumped forward.

“Bind him to a tree,” de Lanceau said quietly without looking back. “We will collect him upon our return. Leave the horses here, as well. We will proceed on foot.”

The men-at-arms slid down from their mounts. Several of the guards drew the unconscious lackey down to the ground and began to tie him.

Drawing Aldwin and another man aside, de Lanceau spoke to them in hushed tones. The two nodded, then slunk into the undergrowth, no doubt sent to assess the situation.

Gisela dismounted from her horse and untied her satchel. She slung the strap over her shoulder. The bag’s weight settled by her hip.

While de Lanceau relayed instructions to the rest of his men, the distant voices carried again. Oh, Dominic. Fear squeezed her innards, along with a desperate need to know he was all right. If Ryle decided to take out his rage upon Dominic…

“Gisela, you will stay here.”

Disappointment flooded through her. “Milord⁠—”

“’Tis safest for you.” De Lanceau turned to a broad-shouldered guard armed with a bow and arrows. “Watch over the horses and prisoner.”

Underbrush rustled close by.

The men immediately fell silent. Swords hissed from their scabbards before Aldwin loped out of the forest, his expression grim. “The silks are there, milord. So is Crenardieu. Men are loading the cloth into boats. They are almost done.”