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Every visit he asked after Ewan. How she loathed his interest in her little boy. It implied, somehow, that her son was important to him. Yet, she needed Crenardieu’s payment, so she must tolerate his unwelcome questions. Forcing a smile, she said, “He is well, thank you.”
“Bon.” A curious smile touched the Frenchman’s mouth before his attention again shifted to Dominic. His gaze lingered and then trailed in a slow, deliberate perusal over Dominic’s body, all the way down to his boots. The scrutiny was so pointedly thorough, Gisela shuddered.
“Bonjour to you, monsieur.” Varden’s pale fingers twitched, as if the glittering gemstone rings on his fingers had suddenly started to pinch. “I did not realize you were with a client, Anne. I apologize if I interrupted a negotiation.”
“You did not,” Dominic said, before she could utter one word.
“Ah. Bon.” The Frenchman’s smile broadened. “I do not believe we have met, monsieur—?”
Stepping forward, smiling in return, Dominic extended his hand. “Dominic de Terre.”
The Frenchman shook hands. “Varden Crenardieu.” Again, his gaze skimmed over Dominic in blatant appreciation. “C’est magnifique, your tunic. English wool, or Flemish?”
“English.” Dominic chuckled. “I see you know your cloth.”
“Oui.” Varden’s chest seemed to expand. He set his bejeweled fingers upon his waist, separating the edges of his cloak to reveal his embroidered gray tunic and hose beneath. “Cloth is my trade. Here in Moydenshire, no other man can match my supply of fabrics.”
“Indeed.” His face alight with astonishment, Dominic raised his eyebrows. “Even Lord Geoffrey de Lanceau?”
Wariness flashed in Crenardieu’s green eyes, but his smile didn’t waver. “From what I have heard, Lord de Lanceau runs a fine wool trade from Branton Keep. I have also heard tales of the excellent silks he imports from the continent.” He shrugged. “Since I have never met him, or seen his selection of fabrics, I cannot say whether my stock matches his. Yet, I can assure you, monsieur, my goods are the finest from the Fairs of Champagne.”
“I see,” Dominic murmured.
“If you need a particular fabric, in a particular color, I can find it.”
Gisela clasped her trembling hands so tightly, they turned numb. Crenardieu’s words were virtually an invitation for Dominic to mention his search for de Lanceau’s missing shipment.
She had to divert the conversation. Quickly. Before one question led to another and the damning revelation of the silk in her shop.
“’Tis fortuitous that we met this day,” Dominic said, “for I, too, am a merchant in need of cloth for one of my clients.”
Crenardieu’s gaze brightened. His fingers twitched again, indicating he anticipated an exchange of coin.
Sweat beaded between Gisela’s breasts. Now, Gisela!
Clearing her throat, she drew Crenardieu’s attention. “Milord, I do not mean to interrupt, but may I fetch you a drink? Some mead, mayhap?”
Crenardieu waved his bejeweled hand. “Non, merci. I intended to stop by only a moment.” He gestured to her worktable. “All goes well with the garments I commissioned?”
Oh, God!
She nodded, fighting the anxiety lancing through her. Did her panic show in her expression? Did Dominic sense her disquiet? She hoped not.
“Bon,” Crenardieu said.
Please, go, without asking any more questions. Please!
The Frenchman glanced at Dominic before half-turning toward the open doorway. “Was there aught in particular you wished to discuss with me?”
Naught! Gisela’s mind shrieked.
Dominic’s head dipped in a determined nod. “I am looking to buy silk. Not any silk, mind, but the finest Eastern cloth. ’Tis of such wondrous quality, it feels like down against one’s skin.” He smiled. “Do you know where I can purchase some?”
CHAPTER 7
Dominic carefully studied the Frenchman’s expression. He waited for some sign of deception, of a struggle to control a flare of surprise. The man’s eyelids did not even flicker with a hint of disquiet. Nor did his oily smile waver.
Gisela, however, seemed to grow more pale. Why? Mayhap the disagreement with Ewan had upset her more than Dominic realized.
