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Oh, but he did have noble blood.
Sadness threatened to snatch away Gisela’s smile. Refusing to look at Dominic, she rubbed Ewan’s shoulder. “I will fetch your bread. Why do you not remove your mantle and hang it back on the peg by the door?”
Ewan thrust the honey pot into her hands. Gisela strolled past the trestle table toward the smaller, oak table where she prepared food. Beside it stood a battered cupboard, standing on four squat legs, where she stored vegetables and salted meats. Dominic’s gaze followed her—she felt his stare so intensely—but she resisted the temptation to look back at him.
When she cleared the trestle table, an object on the floor ahead caught her gaze: Ewan’s toy sword. Adorning the grip was the scrap of blue silk she’d given him the other day.
Varden had given her the silk.
Quite possibly de Lanceau’s stolen silk.
If Dominic came around the table and saw the sword—
Her strides slowed, while her sweaty fingers tightened around the honey pot. Would she be wisest to tell Dominic of the bolts of silk concealed beneath the floor of her shop? To admit she hadn’t realized the cloth might be stolen when she agreed to sew the sumptuous garments Varden commissioned?
Do not speak of it! If you tell Dominic, de Lanceau will send his men-at-arms to investigate. Whether the silk is stolen or not, you risk losing the payment Varden promised. You need that coin to flee north—as you have dreamed—and begin a new life, where Ryle will never find you. Surely Ewan’s life is more important than your qualms.
“Ewan!” Ada’s scolding voice broke into Gisela’s thoughts. “Did ye not ’ear yer mama? She said ta ’ang yer mantle up on the peg, not leave it in a ’eap on the floor.”
Half-listening to her son’s grumbles, Gisela drew in a steadying breath. She must do whatever was necessary to ensure her little boy’s future. As much as she’d once loved—still loved—Dominic, Ewan was completely dependent upon her. Not just for food, shelter, and comfort. For survival.
Picking up the sword and untying the silk would draw attention to it. She must hide the sword.
Where?
As she glanced about the small kitchen area, Dominic said, “So you wish to be a knight, do you, boy?”
“Aye.” Ewan sounded faintly defensive.
“You will need to learn to fight. To work very hard.”
Ewan snorted. “I practice every day.”
“Do you, now?”
Gisela’s frantic gaze settled on the shadowed area beneath the cupboard. She pushed the sword with her foot. The toy rasped across the dirt floor. She prayed the sound wouldn’t be audible over the conversation.
“I have my own sword,” Ewan said. “I will show you.”
Nay, Ewan! Nay!
With a swift shove, she sent the sword skidding under the cupboard.
Her son’s footsteps sounded close by. “Mama, have you seen my sword?”
Setting the honey pot on the food table, she faced her frowning son. “Nay, Button.” An unwelcome twinge in the vicinity of her heart chastised her for lying to her own child. Surely, though, ensuring his safety justified a little falsehood.
Ewan’s frown deepened. “I am certain I left my sword in here.” He studied the floor.
“I did not see it.” Anxious to distract him before he peered under the cupboard, Gisela gestured to the bread. “We will look for it after you have eaten.”
Scooting closer, his face shadowed with disappointment, Ewan muttered, “Sir Dominic does not believe I am a warrior, Mama.”
She put her arm around him and tried not to smile at the insulted pride in his gaze. “I am sure he does.”
Dominic cleared his throat. He sounded as though he struggled to suppress a chuckle. “Mayhap Ewan can show me his sword-fighting skills another day. I must be on my way.”
Ewan twisted in Gisela’s embrace so his shoulders pressed against her belly. Sliding her arm loosely around his torso, she said, “Dominic, are you well enough to leave?”
