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“Dominic?”

“I did not see him.”

A worried frown creasing his brow, de Lanceau beckoned to his warriors. “Come.”

The men stole into the woods. The muted crunch of leaves and brush faded to forest silence.

Gnawing her lip, Gisela glanced at the slumbering lackey, securely bound. The tethered horses nibbled at grass alongside the road. Standing on a rise of ground nearby, the bowman returned her gaze before staring past her into the forest.

How could she just stand here and wait for the men to return?

I love you, Dominic. I love you!

Twigs snapped in the woods behind the guard. He turned and scanned the undergrowth.

Gisela darted into the forest. The carpet of forest leaves whispered under her shoes. Fern fronds slipped against her skirts as she headed toward the riverbank, paying no heed to the bowman’s muffled oath.

Movement ahead captured her attention. Through a gap in the trees, she saw Crenardieu, as bold as a peacock, standing by the river. Ryle stood beside him. Panic lanced through her, almost causing her to fall.

Another movement, closer to her, snared her focus. She blinked, trying to discern exactly what she saw. Hands. Twisting.

Scarcely visible to her, a man stood bound to a tree.

She crept closer. Measured step by measured step.

Dominic!

Her heart pounded so fiercely, she thought the sound would echo up to the sky. Barely resisting the need to rush forward and throw her arms around him, she edged nearer.

His struggles ceased. Had he sensed her approach?

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.”