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Dominic nodded. “Geoffrey decided ’twas the best approach for now, rather than send out a contingent of men-at-arms. The thieves might run, then, with the silks—making it more difficult to find the stolen cloth. ’Tis vital to recover all of the missing bolts.” He grinned. “I hoped to linger about the market, to eavesdrop on the local gossipers. Then, I saw you.”

A flush stained her face. “I thwarted your plans.”

“Nay. Merely delayed them.” Squeezing her arms one more time, he released her and glanced down at his bandages. “Are you almost done?”

“Aye.” With gentle hands, she resumed wrapping the linen about his ribs. Not too tight. Loose enough for his chest to expand and constrict with each breath. As though, somehow, she knew the secrets of good bandaging. Of course, having a rambunctious son, she’d likely learned by tending his wounds.

“If you hear any word about the silks—or mayhap a customer brings some to you to be made into clothes—you will tell me, aye?”

“Few in Clovebury have the means to buy silk, Dominic,” she said quietly.

“Geoffrey’s shipment is in this town somewhere. It left the town farther upriver, but did not reach Branton. Clovebury is the only riverfront town in between.”

After knotting the last bandage, she tucked the ends into the rest of the wrappings. “How does that feel?”

“Much better. Thank you.”

“If you sit again, I will tend your jaw.”

He almost answered that he could tend the injury himself—even a simpleton could rub on some salve—but he found himself dropping back down on the bench. Holding the pot, she leaned closer and dabbed ointment on his wound.

The salve’s strong scent assailed him. Yet, it carried the soft undertone of her fragrance. A reminder that she, above all, was the reason he spoke of the silks in the first place.

“What I have told you about Geoffrey’s stolen cloth, you must keep to yourself,” he said in clear warning. “You must tell no one.”

One hand on his chin, she was leaning back to inspect his wound. Her gaze slid to his. “I will not.”

“That is a solemn oath, Gisela, healer of Sir Dominic the Mighty Dragon Slayer?”

She rolled her eyes and laughed. “’Tis.”

“Good.” He smiled at her. “Now, Gisela, ’tis your turn to share your confidence with me. Tell me what—or whom—you fear.”

CHAPTER 5

Refusal, scalding like hot soup, rose in Gisela’s throat. The salve on her fingers suddenly felt cold, as if a breeze had invaded her home and chilled her skin. Breaking her gaze from Dominic’s, she stepped from between his legs, pressed the stopper into the pot, and set it down on the table.

“You must tell me.”

Dominic’s voice, taut with emotion, forced her gaze back to him. The angles of his cheekbones looked harsher, all teasing boyishness gone from his expression. A steely tension surrounded him. He would look this way in the moments before he charged into battle.

Looking back at the table, she picked up a clean bandage and dried her fingers. She struggled to deny the command in his stare. Refusing him was akin to denying the sun’s warmth. Impossible.

Their gazes locked. Such resolve gleamed in his brown eyes. His desire for answers obviously consumed him.

A similar consuming heat, rooted in the love they’d once shared, bloomed within her. Gisela struggled to smother it, to quell the other emotions taking root—longing, desire, and regret. She moistened her bottom lip with her tongue and set aside the bandage, while fighting to bolster the courage that had kept her and Ewan alive. “Dominic, please, I cannot⁠—”

“Who has wounded you so?” His tone almost a growl, he said, “Who, Gisela? Your lover?”

Tears burned her eyes. “I have no lover.” I have loved no man, Dominic, but you.

His gaze sharpened to a piercing stare. “Your husband?”

She had anticipated the question. Still, a gasp jammed in her throat. The room blurred around her. Her fingers skidded blindly over the table, seeking hold, finally clamping to the edge of the scarred but serviceable oak. A wheezing sound broke from her.

The bench creaked. Before she could wave him away, Dominic stood beside her. His hands pressed to her shoulders.

“Gisela,” he whispered. Such fury crackled in his voice. It turned her innards as cold as a bleak winter night.