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“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.
