Page 9 of The Blacksmith

“Can you spare the boys until midday?” Idalia asked, remembering the marshal’s plea. “Our marshal finds himself without two stable boys and could use assistance grooming this morn.”

Lance nodded to the boys. “Go.”

They obeyed immediately, scurrying past her and out the door.

“I fear your gown will be worse for visiting here,” he said.

Indeed, her pale yellow frock would collect soot more easily than most, earning her a lecture from the laundress, but it would not be her first talking-to.

“I’m no stranger to the forge,” she said, watching him wipe his hands on a cloth that was more black than cream. A leather apron fit snugly around his chest, but it was his arms that captured her attention.

Not that Idalia had never seen a man’s bare arms before. She had, especially here in this forge. But this was the first time she’d ever wished to run her hands over them before.

“’Tis unusual for a lady, is it not?”

She looked up quickly.

“Aye. But I was quite close with Roland.”

Lance leaned against a table where tools lay scattered. They were everywhere. Hanging on the walls, covering each surface. But it was precisely that disorder that had always appealed to her, a refreshing change from her so very structured life.

“You said he was beloved here.”

“His father served as blacksmith before him.”

Had she imagined the dark look that passed over his features? The new smith seemed to smile little, but her remark had displeased him somehow. Was it because he’d been met with a cool reception?

“I can help you,” she blurted out.

He stared at her, his expression indiscernible.

“Ingrain yourself here in Stanton,” she clarified. “We celebrate with the Gule of August feast in three days’ time. The keep will be filled as the farmers come with their offerings, and all are welcome to join the feast. ’Tis a custom for the craftsmen to offer my father a token of their finest work. Show him, everyone, what you can do.”

“In three days?”

“Admittedly it is not much time, and there are those who do not participate.” She shrugged her shoulders. “’Tis not required of you to do so.”

“But you believe I should?”

“Aye.”

“Why would you help me?”

She hadn’t expected the question. Why indeed?

“’Tis what I do,” she said simply. A true enough statement.

He shifted his position, his arms reaching down to grab the edge of the table. Which was when she noticed the design on his left arm. She’d never seen anything quite like it.

“What is it?” she asked, moving closer. The black mark was etched into the skin across his upper arm. But it was only when he twisted it a bit that she could see the design clearly.

“The fleur-de-lis.”

An odd marking for an English blacksmith. Before she realized what she was doing, Idalia reached out as if to touch it, pulling back at the last moment.

“Go on,” he said.

His eyes were brown. A deep, dark brown that seemed appropriate to his visage. To his intensity too.