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Another thud. Wood cracked. The top bolt’s wrought-iron fastenings pulled away from the embrasure.

“Mama!”

Stumbling backward, Gisela pushed Ewan and Ada toward her home.

Thud. A loud splintering sound. The bolt flew off and clattered on the floor.

“Crenardieu!” she yelled. “Cease!”

Another thud, and the main door lock broke. The lower bolt gave. The panel crashed inward, groaning on its hinges.

Crenardieu stood on the threshold. His furious gaze pinned Gisela where she stood. Behind her, the door to her house slammed.

The Frenchman stepped into her shop. With a sharp jerk of his head, two men followed, hauling Dominic along between them. Head drooping, he staggered. He looked barely able to walk.

“Oh, God,” Gisela whispered, unable to suppress a sob.

Wavering from side to side, he raised his head. A nasty, purpling bruise encircled his right eye. Blood dripped from his lower lip. The two men yanked him farther forward, sneering when he grimaced.

“Gisela,” he rasped, his voice eerily slurred. “Be… w⁠—”

“Dominic,” she sobbed, starting toward him. “What have they done to you?”

Crenardieu flicked his hand. The thugs released Dominic. Wobbling on his feet, he straightened. He attempted to push his shoulders back, but the effort seemed too great. He dropped to his knees.

Gisela gasped and rushed to his side. She knelt before him, pushing matted hair from his face. With gentle hands on either side of his jaw, she raised his chin to look into his eyes. Sticky wetness dampened her fingertips.

Blood.

Tears blurred her vision. “Dominic.”

His mouth formed a weak smile.

“Why did they do this to you?” Anger gnawed the edge off her fear. “How dare you hurt him like this?” she said, glancing first at the thugs, then over her shoulder at Crenardieu.

“How dare I?” Crenardieu chuckled. “I had good reason.”

“What reason?” she said, even as fear numbed her. The Frenchman knew about Dominic’s mission. He knew Dominic intended to capture him and his men.

She held Dominic’s gaze, but his eyelids fluttered. She sensed him hovering on the edge of unconsciousness, and his internal battle not to surrender to the pain. His fingers curled into her sleeve, as if to stop himself from collapsing.

Under his breath, he muttered a few, urgent words. Fie! She could not understand him.

I love you, she told him with her gaze, sweeping her thumbs over his stubbled jaw. Dominic, how I love you.

A soft rustle drew her gaze back to Crenardieu, who drew an object from his clothing. He held a rolled parchment, once sealed with wax. The seal was broken.

Sneering, the Frenchman unfurled the skin. “‘My dearest friend and honorable Lord Geoffrey de Lanceau,” he read in a scathing tone. “With utmost pleasure, I write to tell you I have discovered some of your stolen silks.’” Crenardieu’s sharpened gaze bored into her. “Imagine. He is not a fool merchant looking to buy silk for a client. He is de Lanceau’s spy.”

“How do you know he penned that note?” she said. “Someone could have given it to him.”

“Show her.”

A ruffian reached down, grabbed Dominic’s hand, and held it out for her to see. Black ink stained his thumb and forefinger.

“He wrote it,” Crenardieu said. “A bar wench at The Stubborn Mule also saw him writing it.”

Dominic mumbled again, louder this time. She stared down into his swollen face. “Tell me again,” she pleaded. “What?”