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“Does that mean Dominic might be in danger?”
Oh, my. She bit down on her tongue to suppress a groan. “As you said, he is a grown warrior. He has the fighting skills to defend himself if he is attacked by dragons.” Or two-legged thugs loyal to Crenardieu.
Ewan nodded, as though satisfied with her answer. With careful fingers, he straightened Sir Smug’s cloth armor.
Ada’s questioning frown remained.
Breaking the older woman’s gaze, Gisela moved to the table, picked up a chunk of bread, and raised it to her lips. The yeasty scent turned her nervous stomach. With a sigh, she set the morsel down beside the bowl of hazelnuts and poured herself a mug of mead.
Gisela sipped the warm liquid, forcing it down when it threatened to choke her. Still, the sense of dread—the gut-squeezing uncertainty that had rushed through her when Dominic strode away—lingered. What was he arranging that he didn’t want to confide in her? Were her moments of freedom—her moments with Ewan—drawing to an end?
The coolness of the earthenware mug seeped into her fingers and matched the cold knot in the pit of her stomach. If only Dominic hadn’t discovered the truth about the silk until after she’d completed her deal with Crenardieu. If only she had the Frenchman’s coin, enabling her and Ewan to flee north tonight.
What selfish, deceitful thoughts. She would surely writhe in purgatory for such musings—after she had rotted to nothingness in de Lanceau’s dungeon.
Oh, God, she couldn’t stand by, counting the moments until Dominic returned, while her life became tightly bound to circumstances she couldn’t control. Waiting was its own kind of hell.
“—and Sir Smug should clean his weapons after this round of fighting,” Ada was saying. Clothing rustled, followed by loud grunts—the sound of the woman pushing to her feet. “Whew! Me arse is numb from sittin’ on the floor.”
Ewan giggled.
“We will call an ’alt to our battle fer a while. Aye?”
Gislea turned in time to see her son’s face crumple into a disappointed scowl. “Aw. Sir Smug wants to fight some more.”
“Of course ’e does. ’E is a knight.” Ada rolled her eyes at Gisela. “’E will battle e’en more fiercely, though, after a brief rest in ’is camp.” She peered down at the little boy. “Ye did set up a camp fer ’im, did ye not?”
Ewan glanced about. “Um—”
“Right, then. I think ye’d better make one. Let me know when ye ’ave finished.”
The little boy twisted where he sat, clearly searching for a good location. Concentration sharpened his gaze, an expression similar to Dominic’s before he left earlier.
Rubbing her bottom, Ada crossed the space between her and Gisela. “’E ’ad some bread and cheese,” she said, gesturing in Ewan’s direction.
“Thank you.”
Ada nodded, but the worry lines didn’t soften around her mouth. “If ye do not mind me askin’,” she said quietly, “what is botherin’ ye?”
The woman’s motherly gaze urged Gisela to release her turmoil on a good, satisfying cry. ’Twould not be the first time Gisela had wept on the woman’s shoulder; months ago, in Ada’s home, while her slashed breast healed, she’d cried far too often. Now, tearfully confiding in Ada and possibly jeopardizing her well-being was not only unwise, but unfair.
“I am fine,” Gisela said, hoping she sounded convincing. She must try to keep a focused perspective and decide what to do.
Ada clucked her tongue. Muttering under her breath, she reached into her pocket and withdrew the money Dominic had given her. Holding the silver in her creased palm, she said, “Take it.”
Gisela stared at the coins, enough to feed her and Ewan for a couple of sennights. Yet, Ada earned a modest living as a midwife. “’Tis very kind,” Gisela said, “but Dominic gave that coin to you.”
“Ye ’ave a young ’un ta clothe and feed. I ’ave only meself.” Ada’s tone softened to a whisper. “Ye may not wish ta tell me, but I know ye are in trouble. That clever-tongued lord, ’e brought the trouble with ’im, aye?”
“Nay, he did not—”
Ada snorted a breath and set the coins down by the bowl of nuts. “I am not daft. I see the way ’e looks at ye, when ’e thinks ye do not notice.”
Gisela glanced at Ewan. Chatting to Sir Smug lying prone on the floor, her son carefully folded a linen rag into a makeshift pallet.
“If that Dominic ’ad ’is way, ye’d be off in the nearest field, ’avin’ a good old—”
“Ada!” Gisela blushed.
