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Burn in hellfire, Dominic silently snarled. Closing his eye, he lay completely still, pretending to be oblivious.
An ominous creak, followed by the whisper of fabric, warned him Crenardieu had moved. Was he going to kick again? Dominic opened his eye again to see the Frenchman squatting before him, his cloak pooled about him on the dirt.
Their gazes locked.
Crenardieu smiled. “I give you one more chance, oui? Sit up.”
Dominic forced his mouth into a return smile, while he coiled his aching body to spring. “Actually, I am quite comfortable here.” He patted the cold floor. “Far better than that clumsy horse.”
Crenardieu growled. His fist flew toward Dominic’s head.
Shoving up with his hands, Dominic leapt back to a crouch; he gasped as the room spun before coming back into focus. The Frenchman’s fist met only air. When his face twisted with fury, Dominic kicked out. His foot slammed into Crenardieu’s knee. Astonishment registered in the Frenchman’s eyes before he fell backward, his hands flailing.
Pain screamed through every muscle in Dominic’s body, but he rose to standing. Squinting, he looked for a door, a window… any way out of the building which appeared to be a dilapidated hut.
“Stop him,” Crenardieu spluttered.
Men rushed toward him.
Metal hissed—the sound of a drawn sword.
“God’s teeth,” Dominic muttered, darting past the fire. His body protested every movement. The annoying ringing in his ears resumed.
The thugs surrounded him.
The tip of a sword pressed against his neck.
Dominic froze. The room whirled, making his stomach pitch. He sucked in a breath, fighting the need to vomit. He would not retch in front of these men.
Crenardieu edged into view, his sword level at Dominic’s neck. An exquisite blade, newly sharpened. One slash, and Dominic would not have to worry about his aching limbs ever again.
Failed, again.
“The rope,” Crenardieu said, not taking his gaze from Dominic.
The dark-haired thug brought over a length of frayed cord, wrapping one end around his hand while he walked. The rope whispered, a sinister sound that raised the hairs at the back of Dominic’s neck. His legs threatened to give out.
“I am of no use to you. I will not betray de Lanceau.”
As the Frenchman stepped back a few paces, the thug moved forward, letting the rope’s free end dangle toward the ground like a snake.
“Brave words,” Crenardieu said. “But, I will get the information I want from you one way”—he gestured to the rope—“or another.”
Holding tight to Ewan’s hand, Gisela hurried down the street. The surrounding buildings stood silvered by watery moonlight. With each step, her satchel bumped against her hip, eliciting a muffled thump. Her sewing shears—shoved in while she rushed Ewan through her shop—must have settled against the wooden box.
She did not want to draw the attention of thieves. Exhaling a nervous sigh, she urged Ewan to a faster pace and rammed the satchel with her elbow. The coins inside clinked, a reminder of the urgency of her escape… and the choice before her, as real as the shadows crowding in upon them.
She had enough silver to hire a wagon and driver, flee Clovebury, and never look back. To realize her dream that had sustained her. She could abandon all she loathed—and loved—in exchange for freedom. Her past would become a secret, held tight within her, never to be spoken of again.
“Mama.” Ewan pulled on her hand. “I… Sir Smug is scared.”
Glancing down at her son’s upturned face, she squeezed his fingers. “We will be fine.”
We. How she and Dominic had spoken of each other, that summer, when they had lain together in the meadow.
The night breeze stirred her hair and forced her to blink several times. What had happened to Dominic? Had he escaped Crenardieu’s men? Was he badly injured?
Foolish, mayhap, to worry. He had survived crusade. With his cleverness and fighting skills, he would vanquish the thugs at the first opportunity, force them to reveal the location of the rest of the stolen silks, and then return for Crenardieu. Dominic was, after all, a warrior.
