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Simmering rage and excitement burgeoned inside him. His mind spun with the sensation, akin to being drunk on potent liquor. A dissonant ringing sounded in his ears and threatened to drown out the conversation of the thugs preparing to ride.

“Keep watch on him,” Crenardieu said from nearby, followed by the creak of a leather saddle. The Frenchman had climbed onto his horse. “Two of you ride in front of him, two in back. If he tries to escape, knock him senseless.”

“Why not hit him now?” one of the thugs said. By his voice, Dominic recognized the dark-haired lout he’d confronted in the alley. The man laughed, as did his friends.

Go on, have a good chuckle. To repay your cruelty, I shall make you eat dirt.

“Non, fool. You struck him too hard last time. I want him alert enough to answer my questions.”

The ringing in Dominic’s ears grew louder. He sensed himself on the verge of collapse, teetering on the precipice of unconsciousness.

Nay. Oblivion was cowardice. He must stay awake. Unconscious, he was as useless as a one-legged mule.

Despite his predicament—and his injuries—he couldn’t have wished for better circumstances. With luck, the men would take him to the place where they had stored the rest of the stolen cloth. Therefore, he must go along with their plans for him. Not meekly, though. That would make them suspicious. While he must offer enough resistance to prove he loathed their treatment of him, he wouldn’t escape before he knew their hideout.

Close by, a horse whinnied, followed by the clip-clop of hooves. Dominic’s horse started to walk. The sound of hooves striking dirt echoed inside his brain. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to find equilibrium in the animal’s stride, which jostled him about like a sack of beans. Had the thugs deliberately given him this ill-paced nag for additional torture, or was he only imagining its clumsiness?

God’s blood, how many miles would he have to endure, his head to the ground and his arse in the air?

He might have indulged in a wry groan if the horse hadn’t stumbled. Pain shot through his skull. The discomfort slowly dimmed, fusing into a memory of Gisela lifting his head and her beautiful eyes widening with shock.

Gisela. Sweet Daisy. Was she all right? What had happened to her and Ewan after Ryle entered her shop?

Dominic bit back an oath. He stared down into the darkness and blinked against the grime drifting up from the road. I will come for you, Gisela. I will not abandon you, as I did years ago. This, I promise. I pledge my life upon it.

Her fingers clenched together, Gisela stood by the table in her home. Ewan sat on the bench beside her, wrapped in Ada’s comforting embrace. A few yards away, Ryle stood with his back to them, ominously silent, his gaze traveling over the interior.

Fear shrieked inside Gisela like claws scraped across slate. The shrillness superseded the chatter of the two louts Crenardieu had left behind in her shop to stand guard—even though he’d confiscated the silk.

At first, she’d refused to reveal the cloth’s hiding place, but when Crenardieu’s thugs had started to batter down the door of her home—threatening to beat whoever was inside unless she told them where to find the silk—she’d relented. Ryle at his side, Crenardieu had watched her remove the floorboards, whereupon he’d ordered his men to take the bolts and garments and replace the planks. Then, he had forced her to let him into her home. After a smug glance at Ewan, the Frenchman had walked out, ordering the two men to stay behind.

“You have what you want!” she’d shrieked. “Let Dominic go. Leave us be.”

Crenardieu had merely smiled at her. He’d spoken to the men who were lounging by the shop door, drinking from a shared flask, and left.

Beside Gisela, Ewan sniffled. Ada murmured, “There, there.”

Gisela fought a moan. She, not the older woman, should be embracing Ewan. Yet, panic pinned Gisela’s feet to the floor. Her limbs felt hewn from stone, her spirit entombed within an unresponsive body. She tried, but couldn’t wrench her gaze from Ryle.

Sickly sweat trickled down between her breasts. The insides of her shoes felt as cold as snow. Fight, Gisela! her spirit cried. Do not cower before Ryle. Do not let him destroy you and Ewan.

She struggled to cast her son a reassuring glance. She couldn’t. Ryle stood in almost the exact spot where Ewan had spilled the contents of her box, his fine boots planted apart, one hand on his hip. His other hand clasped a leather flask, from which he had drunk several times.

Ryle’s silver-gray hair swept the shoulders of his cloak, which draped down to his ankles. Even in the murky light, she discerned the fine quality of the wool woven at the cuffs with silver thread. A costly garment. She wondered just how much coin he had spent to find her—and what he’d paid Crenardieu to reveal her whereabouts.

The cloak’s inky black—the hue of the darkest, most dangerous night hours—not only enrobed Ryle, but seemed to magnify his physical presence. He looked taller than she remembered, more imposing, as if his anger and hatred had made him grow into even more of a monster. She knew, while she stared in mute terror, that he would not be denied whatever he desired.

And he wanted her to suffer.

His head turned. He glanced down at her and Ewan’s pallets pushed against the wall, at Sir Smug lying nearly naked in the make-believe camp. Her attempt at an independent life suddenly seemed a pathetic illusion, as insubstantial as the fire made from a bit of wood, and the bed made of folded cloth. Like Sir Smug, she was vulnerable to Ryle. Her dreams of freedom were exposed, in danger of being trampled beneath his boot.

Fight, Gisela! her spirit screamed. You must. Have you forgotten what he promised for Ewan and Dominic?

Ryle closed the flask and put it inside his cloak. “So this is where you have been hiding, wife.” He did not glance at her. Neither did he raise his voice, but the calculated quality of his words frightened her more than his screaming temper.

Will he kill me now? Or will he kill Ewan first, to spite me, and then murder me?

“You cast aside all I offered you—my manor, fine clothes, the prestige of a rich merchant’s wife—for this?” Ryle waved his hand, indicating the pitiful furnishings and dirt floor. His shoulders shook in a disbelieving laugh.