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She giggled. “Ooh, ye are a naughty one.” Balancing the tray on her hip, she leaned closer, displaying her breasts squeezed into a grubby linen bodice. “A rich merchant like ye likely ’as lots o’ lovers.”

Dominic chuckled, playing along. “Well⁠—”

“Does this ’un live far away… or close by?”

“Close by. If you will excuse me⁠—”

Her foot shot into the space between the embrasure and door, preventing him from closing the panel. “Let me in, luv. I will gladly ’elp ye with yer letter.”

“A gracious invitation,” he said. “However, I am managing very well on my own.”

She smiled, revealing all of her crooked, browned teeth, then tapped her head. “I am a clever ’un, ye know. All the men tell me so.”

“Of course, you are.” God’s blood, but she was making a polite rejection difficult for him. “I regret, though, I cannot dally right now. Mayhap later⁠—”

Clucking her tongue, she took one of the ale mugs from her tray. Smiling again, she offered it to him. “Some ale, then, ta ’elp ye while ye work?”

If she went away, aye. “Why not?” Remembering he had given the silver in his coin pouch to Ada, he stepped back to grab his saddlebag. Faster than he thought possible, the bar wench slipped inside his room, her greedy gaze taking in the quill, ink, and parchment.

Warning sparked, but he shrugged it aside. He did not know any barmaid who could read. Still, after taking the ale from her, he guided her back into the hallway where he dug a silver coin out of his bag. “Thank you.”

“Thank ye, luv.” Grinning at him, making an elaborate show of her efforts, she poked the coin into her cleavage.

A bosom not half as enticing as Gisela’s.

He gave the wench a last smile, turned back into his room, and locked the door. Sipping the dark ale, he finished his missive and signed it with a flourish. He rerolled the skin. Picking up the candle, he tipped it toward him, causing a fat drop of wax to fall upon the parchment’s edge to form a seal.

Laughter swelled from the downstairs room, followed by the thump of fists upon tables. Men were placing bets. Occupied with their wagering, they wouldn’t notice him making arrangements with one of the farmhands to deliver the message. He would hire the lanky, blond-haired lad who had complained last evening to all who cared to listen that he never earned enough in a season to buy his betrothed a ring. A man like him would know the local roads better than anyone, especially at night—and the fastest route to Branton Keep.

Raising his ale mug, Dominic downed the rest of the brew. He stood, tucked the parchment under his tunic, and stepped out into the hall, securing the door behind him. At the top of the stairs, he paused to glance over the crowded, smoky room below.

There, near the door, stood the farmhand. His handsome face pinched into a scowl, the young man shoved a hand through his hair, then swallowed a long draught of ale. After slamming his mug down on the nearest table, he stepped out into the night.

Dominic’s boots pounded on the steps. He brushed past the men gathered around the bottom stairs. One he recognized. The baker.

Under his breath, Dominic prayed the man hadn’t noticed him and would not cause a confrontation. Dominic headed for the open doorway.

“Oy!” called a familiar voice behind him. “Coo-eee, luv.”

Glancing over his shoulder, he spied the bar wench hurrying toward him, her breasts jostling with each step. He raised his hand in a fleeting wave before heading outside.

The night air enveloped him, almost smothering in its intensity. He halted in the middle of the yard. On the soundless breeze, he caught the scent of stabled horses, along with the mustiness of earth and moldering wood.

He scanned the dirt yard for the young man. There. Walking to the back of the tavern.

“Leavin’ ta visit yer lover?” The maid stood silhouetted in the doorway. Light outlined her curves, yet she was a poor imitation of how he had seen Gisela surrounded by a golden aura.

With a sultry giggle, the wench approached him. “Did ye finish yer letter?”

“I did.” He smiled before starting in the direction of the young farmhand. “I am sorry, but I must⁠—”

Close by, he heard footfalls. He swung around, reaching for his dagger. Two of Crenardieu’s thugs emerged from the darkness. They grinned. Not pleasant smiles, but the teeth-baring smirks of louts who’d been waiting for him.

Warning seared through him with almost painful intensity. Where were Crenardieu’s other men? Waiting for him… or threatening Gisela and Ewan?

He tamped down a surge of unease. “What do you want?” he said, glaring at the thugs. “’Tis dangerous to startle a man in such a manner. I might have mistaken you for thieves and accidentally stabbed you.” Play the rich fool merchant, his instincts screamed. Continue your persona from last evening. Keep them talking, while you decide what in hellfire to do next.

More footfalls.