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“Where did you get such a tunic?” she whispered. “’Tis magnificent.” Her fingers itched to skim over the luxurious fabric and gauge the texture and softness.
His roguish smile invited her to touch. “I packed the tunic in my saddlebag.” He waggled his eyebrows. “I donned my best hose. Would you like me to pose for you?”
“Um… Well, I—”
Stepping away from the shop front, Dominic placed one hand on his hip. He thrust the other out with a dramatic flick of his hand. Face tipped up to the sky, he pranced in a slow circle, right there in the street.
How utterly ridiculous he looked, a muscled warrior posing like a puffed-up cockerel. She pressed her hand to her lips, but a giggle broke free on a mortifyingly loud snort, and then she laughed like a silly girl, as she had all those years ago. How natural it felt to laugh so… as though she were destined to enjoy Dominic’s antics.
Facing her, he chuckled.
Still giggling, she wiped the corners of her eyes with her fingers. “Dominic,” she murmured.
His gaze softened with tenderness. How devastating he looked in his refined garments, with the sun streaming over him. His clothes bespoke the privileged life into which he, as a lord’s son, had been born.
Years ago, her parents had bought her several exquisite gowns, not to please her, but to show off her breasts and slim waist in hopes of a proposal from one of their merchant associates. Ryle had bought her sumptuous finery. Now, such garments were so far beyond her means, she didn’t even dare remember the feather-light brush of silk against her bosom.
Her hand trembled. Hot, stinging tears moistened her eyes. The boundary between laughter and sadness seemed treacherously fragile, akin to the parchment-thin husk of a seedpod, dangerously close to splitting apart. Years of anguish, regret, and struggle—carefully buried in her heart—threatened to slip loose, to plant new roots in the banished reaches of her soul. To grow, once again, for the sun.
“Well? What do you think?” Dominic swept a hand to indicate his clothes.
She blinked hard, forcing the betraying tears aside, and smiled brightly at him. “Magnificent.”
Looking pleased, he smoothed the front of his tunic.
“Why are you dressed so?” she asked. “Or, should I say, since you are no longer an old and crippled peddler, who are you today?”
He laughed before executing a careful bow. “I am Dominic de Terre, a wealthy merchant, traveling south to the Port of London,” he said. “I am most eager to buy Eastern silks.” He winked. “Have any you would care to sell me?”
Her pulse lurched, just as a soft scrape sounded behind her. She turned to see Ewan lingering in the doorway to her home, holding Sir Smug to his chest. The toy knight’s head, covered by a gray woolen helm, stuck out above the little boy’s clasped hands, while his cloth- booted legs dangled against Ewan’s belly.
“Button.” Tilting her head, she ordered him back inside the house.
Standing firm, he shook his head. “I heard Dominic.” His gaze slid past her to the open shop window.
“He is Sir Dominic, to you,” she gently corrected.
“’Tis all right. He is a fellow warrior, so he does not need to call me ‘Sir,’” Dominic said with a chuckle, his voice rumbling from the window. “Good day, Ewan.”
“Good day.” Clutching Sir Smug tighter, the little boy stepped farther into the shop.
Gisela’s hand tightened. “Ewan, remember what I told you.”
His mouth tightened with stubbornness.
“Ewan,” she repeated.
“I found my sword,” he said, still looking at Dominic. His gaze slid back to Gisela. “I cannot find the bit of cloth you gave me, though. ’Tis gone.”
Aye, Button. Yesterday I burned it in the fire.
“Do not worry. I will find you another.” She gestured to the house.
Her son’s gaze sparked with defiance. “That cloth was very soft. I liked the color. I want the same again, Mama. I like bl—”
“Button, go, as I asked you. If I must tell you one more time—”
While she meant to scold, her words emerged far sharper than she’d intended. His eyes widened. Regret dissolved her last words.
