from her fingers. A wave of sensation whooshed through her—surprise, delight . . . Guilt. A damning blush rushed to her cheeks. “Hello, Dominic.”
His smile widened, revealing his pleasingly straight teeth. “You did not expect to see me?”
She cleared an awkward croak from her voice. “I did not know quite what to expect after yesterday. You did not say you would visit my shop this morn.”
Oh, God. She hadn’t meant to sound petulant—as if she’d anxiously counted every passing moment since he left and wondered when she’d see him again.
Although she had.
With such passionate intensity, she’d pricked her finger three times yester eve. She’d had to wait for the blood to dry before she could continue her sewing.
“Surely you did not believe I would simply vanish after finding you again?”
How softly he spoke. Yet, each word seemed to sink down inside her, like gold coins tossed into a lake.
Fie! She could not read more into his words, or hope that whatever they had shared before could ever be theirs again. “I thought mayhap your . . . affairs might keep you away.”
Dominic shook his head. Drawing one hand from the window, he pushed windblown hair from his eyes. Sunlight struck him full on the face and torso.
Gisela gasped again. “Your tunic!”
Dominic laughed. “Quite fetching, is it not?”
The wooden stool scraped on the planks as she jumped to her feet. No longer did he wear simple, plain garments. Today, he wore a wool tunic the rich, dark blue of a twilight sky. Red and silver embroidery twined about the collar and sleeves. Stepping around the table’s edge, she moved between it and the window for a better look.
“Where did you get such a tunic?” she whispered. “’Tis magnificent.” Her fingers itched to skim over the luxurious fabric and gauge the texture and softness.
His roguish smile invited her to touch. “I packed the tunic in my saddlebag.” He waggled his eyebrows. “I donned my best hose. Would you like me to pose for you?”
“Um . . . Well, I—”
Stepping away from the shop front, Dominic placed one hand on his hip. He thrust the other out with a dramatic flick of his hand. Face tipped up to the sky, he pranced in a slow circle, right there in the street.
How utterly ridiculous he looked, a muscled warrior posing like a puffed-up cockerel. She pressed her hand to her lips, but a giggle broke free on a mortifyingly loud snort, and then she laughed like a silly girl, as she had all those years ago. How natural it felt to laugh so . . . as though she were destined to enjoy Dominic’s antics.
Facing her, he chuckled.
Still giggling, she wiped the corners of her eyes with her fingers. “Dominic,” she murmured.
His gaze softened with tenderness. How devastating he looked in his refined garments, with the sun streaming over him. His clothes bespoke the privileged life into which he, as a lord’s son, had been born.
Years ago, her parents had bought her several exquisite gowns, not to please her, but to show off her breasts and slim waist in hopes of a proposal from one of their merchant associates. Ryle had bought her sumptuous finery. Now, such garments were so far beyond her means, she didn’t even dare remember the feather-light brush of silk against her bosom.
Her hand trembled. Hot, stinging tears moistened her eyes. The boundary between laughter and sadness seemed treacherously fragile, akin to the parchment-thin husk of a seedpod, dangerously close to splitting apart. Years of anguish, regret, and struggle—carefully buried in her heart—threatened to slip loose, to plant new roots in the banished reaches of her soul. To grow, once again, for the sun.
“Well? What do you think?” Dominic swept a hand to indicate his clothes.
She blinked hard, forcing the betraying tears aside, and smiled brightly at him. “Magnificent.”
Looking pleased, he smoothed the front of his tunic.
“Why are you dressed so?” she asked. “Or, should I say,
His smile widened, revealing his pleasingly straight teeth. “You did not expect to see me?”
She cleared an awkward croak from her voice. “I did not know quite what to expect after yesterday. You did not say you would visit my shop this morn.”
Oh, God. She hadn’t meant to sound petulant—as if she’d anxiously counted every passing moment since he left and wondered when she’d see him again.
Although she had.
With such passionate intensity, she’d pricked her finger three times yester eve. She’d had to wait for the blood to dry before she could continue her sewing.
“Surely you did not believe I would simply vanish after finding you again?”
How softly he spoke. Yet, each word seemed to sink down inside her, like gold coins tossed into a lake.
Fie! She could not read more into his words, or hope that whatever they had shared before could ever be theirs again. “I thought mayhap your . . . affairs might keep you away.”
Dominic shook his head. Drawing one hand from the window, he pushed windblown hair from his eyes. Sunlight struck him full on the face and torso.
Gisela gasped again. “Your tunic!”
Dominic laughed. “Quite fetching, is it not?”
The wooden stool scraped on the planks as she jumped to her feet. No longer did he wear simple, plain garments. Today, he wore a wool tunic the rich, dark blue of a twilight sky. Red and silver embroidery twined about the collar and sleeves. Stepping around the table’s edge, she moved between it and the window for a better look.
“Where did you get such a tunic?” she whispered. “’Tis magnificent.” Her fingers itched to skim over the luxurious fabric and gauge the texture and softness.
His roguish smile invited her to touch. “I packed the tunic in my saddlebag.” He waggled his eyebrows. “I donned my best hose. Would you like me to pose for you?”
“Um . . . Well, I—”
Stepping away from the shop front, Dominic placed one hand on his hip. He thrust the other out with a dramatic flick of his hand. Face tipped up to the sky, he pranced in a slow circle, right there in the street.
How utterly ridiculous he looked, a muscled warrior posing like a puffed-up cockerel. She pressed her hand to her lips, but a giggle broke free on a mortifyingly loud snort, and then she laughed like a silly girl, as she had all those years ago. How natural it felt to laugh so . . . as though she were destined to enjoy Dominic’s antics.
Facing her, he chuckled.
Still giggling, she wiped the corners of her eyes with her fingers. “Dominic,” she murmured.
His gaze softened with tenderness. How devastating he looked in his refined garments, with the sun streaming over him. His clothes bespoke the privileged life into which he, as a lord’s son, had been born.
Years ago, her parents had bought her several exquisite gowns, not to please her, but to show off her breasts and slim waist in hopes of a proposal from one of their merchant associates. Ryle had bought her sumptuous finery. Now, such garments were so far beyond her means, she didn’t even dare remember the feather-light brush of silk against her bosom.
Her hand trembled. Hot, stinging tears moistened her eyes. The boundary between laughter and sadness seemed treacherously fragile, akin to the parchment-thin husk of a seedpod, dangerously close to splitting apart. Years of anguish, regret, and struggle—carefully buried in her heart—threatened to slip loose, to plant new roots in the banished reaches of her soul. To grow, once again, for the sun.
“Well? What do you think?” Dominic swept a hand to indicate his clothes.
She blinked hard, forcing the betraying tears aside, and smiled brightly at him. “Magnificent.”
Looking pleased, he smoothed the front of his tunic.
“Why are you dressed so?” she asked. “Or, should I say,
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