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She caught Ewan’s hand, urging him along when he wanted to investigate a mound of sticks. A few premises away, past a crowd of early shoppers, she spied the shop run by a kindly husband and wife. She often purchased thread and cloth buttons from their well-stocked establishment. They’d even referred several customers to her.

The front window was open. Relief brought a smile to her lips.

Ewan’s fingers wriggled in hers. How easily he became distracted. “Mama⁠—”

“Not now, Ewan.”

She skirted two men chatting while eating pastries likely purchased from the baker.

“Mama!”

The distress in her son’s voice made her glance at him. Ewan’s anxious gaze darted from her, then away. Holding Sir Smug tight to his chest, he scooted closer to her side.

A reaction she knew well.

Glancing back, she saw Crenardieu striding past the two talking men, his cloak almost skimming the ground. His bright gaze slid from her to Ewan.

Warning buzzed in her mind. The way he looked at her son seemed almost… possessive.

Facing the Frenchman, she drew Ewan against her. Without the slightest protest, he obeyed.

Crenardieu smiled. “Bonjour.”

“Good morning.” She nodded politely, hoping to continue walking. Before she could step away, he moved to block her path.

Warning shrilled more sharply. Others in the street were watching them. Most likely Crenardieu’s thugs.

Do not let him see your fear, she told herself, forcing her chin higher. Find out what he wants and be on your way as quickly as possible.

Crenardieu seemed to sense her discomfort, for he smiled. “I would like to speak with you. Do you have a moment?”

Nay, her mind answered. But, she couldn’t refuse him. She needed his payment. Smiling in return, she said, “Aye.”

His hand touched her elbow—a hold that sent shivers racing through her—and he guided her to the side of the street. They stopped beside an empty shop. An iron padlock secured its splintered front window. Gisela remembered the merchant who’d sold pots and pans from this premises, which was recently broken into. His wares ruined, the man had closed up his shop and left Clovebury.

The blackened space at the bottom right of the window yawned, vacant and eerie.

“Now then.” The warmth of the Frenchman’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I meant to visit you later today. I did not expect to see you wandering through the town.”

Again, his gaze dropped to Ewan. With her arm, she nudged her son behind her, removing him from Crenardieu’s view. “Ewan and I had some shopping to finish this morning,” she said.

The Frenchman nodded. “How are you faring with my commission?”

“The gown is almost done. Both garments will be finished next week as you asked.”

Crenardieu’s lips tightened. “Ah. But, you see, I need them in two days.”

Despite her best efforts, a stunned breath burst from her. “What?”

“I will collect the items from you before dawn, along with the remaining silk. Oui?”

Her stunned mind scrambled to form a reply.

“A regrettable change in plan. Yet, ’tis so.”

She fought the angry panic heating her face. Forcing a civil tone, she said, “You know I cannot work on your commission during the day. You told me not to. You swore me to secrecy, although you have not explained why that must be so.”

A dark flicker sharpened the Frenchman’s gaze. For an instant, she regretted daring to toss out the challenge. Yet, it had slipped out before she could smother it. “’Tis not necessary for you to know. Your task is to create the gown, with the fine skill for which you are known.”