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“How else would I walk?” she muttered, striding toward the door.

He matched her pace. “Not like that.”

Gisela threw up her hands. “Dominic!”

“’Tis best if Crenardieu’s men do not follow us,” he cut in. “You will arouse suspicion if you march along as though you wish to pummel someone—namely me.”

The barest smile kicked up the corner of her mouth.

Ada gave a gleeful snort.

Hands on his hips, he leaned closer to Gisela. The scent of her hair, her body, her sweetness, posed their own challenges to his determination, but he pointedly ignored them. “I am trying to be chivalrous,” he said, in a voice only she could hear. “I wish to hear your explanation, understand why you deceived me, and know how you came to have the stolen silk. However, if you insist on thwarting me, I will haul you from here, tie you to my horse, and take you to Branton Keep to answer to de Lanceau himself.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “Your choice.”

“I have not refused to go with you,” she said between her teeth, mutiny in her eyes.

“Do as I ask, then.” Brushing past her, he opened the door and gestured to the shadow-robed street. “After you.”

She stepped over the threshold and moved aside to let him pass. With a nod to Ada, he drew the door closed. He tipped his head in the direction of the market square and, as he had suggested, she walked at his side, her shoes rasping on the dirt.

The end-of-day breeze held a heavy note, redolent of the coming twilight. As he strode along, he cast a discreet glance up and down the street. No sign of Crenardieu’s thugs. Either they had gone to report to him, or they had snuck away for their evening meal.

He quickened his strides a fraction, encouraged when Gisela did the same. While he wished to speak to her alone, without Ewan or Ada to distract or interfere, he didn’t want to be out after dark. His dealings with Crenardieu last evening had shown him a glimpse of Clovebury’s seedy underbelly. Once was enough.

He crossed through the market, over to the streets on the other side, past houses and shops until the glint of river water appeared ahead. He’d discovered this picturesque spot while walking the bank, searching for clues as to the silk theft. How apt, that his wounded heart brought him here.

“Will you please tell me where we are going?” Gisela said, a catch in her voice.

“Just up here.” The stone wall running along the roadside—a remnant of ancient Roman conquerors—disintegrated a few yards on. A passing cart, veering out of control, must have careened into it, leaving behind a gaping hole. Crumbled rocks trailed into the wildflowers and weeds growing alongside, as though the stones tried to bury themselves again in the earth, to return to familiar ground, rather than risk being mortared back into the wall.

Turning his body sideways, he stepped through the jagged opening into the meadow that led down to the riverbank. Facing Gisela, he extended his hand to help her. She looked at his outstretched fingers, an expression of both longing and determination tightening her features, before she braced her slender hands upon the crumbled stone and eased herself through.

Dominic snuffed a sting of disappointment that she did not allow him to assist her, then turned on his heel and started across the meadow. Shadows, lightened here and there by patches of fading sunshine, flowed like gray cloth across the grasses and wildflowers. Greenery crunched beneath his boots, stirring up hidden creatures—not vibrant butterflies or giddy bumblebees, but small, buzzing insects.

Behind him, he heard the whisper of grasses brushing against her cloak, accompanied by her footsteps. Years ago, she’d followed him so, her strides lazy and coy, her smile as bright as spring sunlight. Now…

He glanced over his shoulder. A pensive frown on her face, she scanned the slow-moving river, the wooden bridge spanning the banks farther down, the trees and cottages on the opposite bank. She rubbed her arms, as if to warm herself.

“Head for that tree. ’Tis shielded from the road.” Dominic gestured to the ancient willow gilded in the orange hues of sunset.

Gisela followed him beneath the broad, spreading branches. She stood in the shadows, looking down at the tangled tracery of roots, as though there lay the answer to her dilemma.

At last, the moment had come. The moment he got his answers. Anticipation ate at him, creating an uncomfortable ache in his gut.

He waited until she looked up at him, then raised his cuff to reveal the silk encircling his wrist like a bracelet. The edges of the fabric were not frayed; this indicated the scrap wasn’t torn from a larger piece of cloth, but neatly cut. Only well-sharpened shears left such a neat edge.

“How did Ewan come by this blue silk, Gisela?”

“I guess he… picked it up.”

“He said you gave it to him.”

Gnawing her lip, she shook her head. “I did not. He must have taken it from the pile of scraps on my shop floor. I did not notice.” Self-condemnation crept into her gaze. “I should have. I should have expected him to sneak some of the cloth for his sword.”

“You know the whereabouts of the stolen silk.”

After a long moment, she nodded. “Some of it.”

“’Tis hidden close to your home?”