Page 5
Familiar, somehow.
Confusion flared, and she fought the terrified moan rising up inside her. She squeezed farther against the wall. Her hand moved sideways a fraction and bumped against a wooden-handled spade. With a loud rasp, the implement keeled sideways, then clanged onto the floor.
Oh, God!
“Gisela?”
The man’s rich, warm voice reached out to her, without a hint of menace. Disbelief shot through her. He sounded just like Dominic.
Memories of her beloved softened the edges of her fear, reviving moments of sunshine, laughter, and love so strong and true. She had known, when she’d kissed him full on the lips for the last time, that she’d never love another man as she had treasured him.
She blinked, fighting tears. Of all wondrous miracles, could it be him?
Cruel reality smashed her elation like a beetle beneath a stone. How foolish, to imagine the man was Dominic. He’d gone away on crusade. He’d likely perished on the bloody eastern sands, run through by a Saracen sword. Even if he’d survived the battles, the journey back to England on a filthy, rat-infested boat surely would have killed him.
Nay, the man could not be Dominic.
Fear was corrupting her mind.
Yet, how did he know her given name? Not the name she used here in Clovebury, but her real name?
“Gisela, are you in here?” The man spoke again. His tone held an edge of frustration.
Oh, heavenly Mother of God. If she heard only his voice, she’d believe him to be Dominic.
Loneliness coaxed her to stumble out of the shadows and look upon him. Oh, my love. Is it you? Biting down on her tongue, she fought the urge to call out. Curling her hands against the rough wall, she struggled not to rush forward.
’Twas not Dominic, she reminded herself. ’Twas a stranger, who was likely working for her husband.
Straw rustled. The shadows shifted as the man walked farther into the stable.
“Why do you not answer me, Gisela? Are you hurt?”
Any moment, he’d round the bales of hay. He would see her. Expectation warred with a rising sense of panic. Caution had protected her and Ewan over the past four months; to foolishly risk them both now was unforgivable.
Her gaze darted to the opposite wall, searching for a hiding place.
Nowhere to conceal herself.
Yanking the bread loaf from under her arm, she tossed it onto a wooden grain barrel. Lunging forward, she picked up the spade.
A man stepped into view. The loose, ragged garments of the peddler hung from his broad frame. With only a few paces between them, and him standing upright rather than hunched over a stick, he looked far taller than she expected.
A warrior in a peddler’s garb.
Facing him, she half-crouched, holding the spade like a pike between them.
He abruptly halted, respecting the barrier she enforced between them. He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, while a wry laugh broke from him. “’Tis not the greeting I expected. At least you were kind enough not to crack me over the head.”
Her gaze sharpened on his face. Brown hair tangled about his shoulders, framing a handsome visage. In the shadows, she couldn’t make out the color of his eyes, but they danced with undisguised mirth.
His face looked tanned, more angular, but his eyes were the same.
Oh, God!
Dominic!
Her arms trembled with the weight of the spade. It wavered, sending the metal end listing down toward the straw-littered floor. As though sensing her astonishment, he said, “Gisela, I have not come to harm you. ’Tis me, Dominic.”
