Page 16 of The Blacksmith

They were alone.

With that knowledge, a vision assaulted him of the gentle lady of Stanton, her hair unbound, as he reached behind her neck and pulled her toward him for a kiss. His body’s immediate reaction forced him to remind himself this was no common maid.

Neither was she just any noblewoman. Lady Idalia was the daughter of the man whose support they needed if this rebellion would come to pass.

“I’m sure he is a finer father than my own.”

Lance had not meant to blurt out such a sentiment. He’d meant only to alleviate his discomfort. But there it was.

“Oh?”

The details were ones he’d not share. With her, or with anyone. Even the order. Only Guy knew the full story, and Lance had always wondered if his friend thought less of him because of it.

“We should go . . .”

“Lance.” She stopped him with her hand, the featherlight touch scorching his arm. He wanted to seize it, use it to pin her against the stone wall.

“I do not know you well”—she pulled her hand away—“but I don’t wish for you to think ill of my father. He is a good man. A noble leader. I believe as you come to know him and the people of Stanton, you will be glad to have come here.”

For reasons that had nothing to do with his purpose, he admitted, “I already am.”

Idalia woke abruptly, her eyes fluttering to the sound of a door bursting open. She sat up, startled, wondering why her maid was staring at her so strangely.

“Apologies, my lady,” Leana said. “I did not realize you were still abed.”

Confused, Idalia looked at the light shining through the cracks in the window’s shutters. The sun was up already. And she was not.

“Have I missed mass?” she asked as her maid turned to leave.

“Aye, my lady.”

Leana, who was her exact same age of twenty and two, had resided at Stanton her whole life. Her father, Stanton’s cook, had fled Scotland with his bride, who had been forbidden to marry an Englishman.

Tall and as bright and cheerful as her blonde hair, her maid could make the most hardened warrior smile.

“I’m awake.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed, signaling Leana should return.

Washing with the rose-scented water Leana had brought with her, she watched as the maid shook out a pale yellow day gown.

“Was my absence noticed?”

Leana’s pointed look was the only answer she needed.

If she’d missed mass, she’d also neglected to oversee the morning meal following mass. Dawson could just as easily have fulfilled that duty, but her father liked to go over castle accounts each morning immediately after mass. He never broke his fast with them, preferring to eat, and work, in private. There were times she did not see her father all day, and though he did typically attend the evening meal, he had been missing more and more of those as of late.

Since the priest had arrived and declared the countess’s illness spiritual in nature, he seemed to be hiding himself away more often than usual.

“I don’t know what overcame me,” she said, removing her shift and stepping into the gown.

Another look. Though she’d asked Leana many, many times to voice her opinions without being asked, the maid still refused to do so.

“Leana?”

She slipped her hands into the arms of the gown, its sleeves fashionably low-hanging, but not so much so she would be unable to perform the many tasks required of her that day.

“’Tis your body speaking to you.” Leana tied the laces at her back. “Since Roysa left, you have been doing all of the tasks she and your mother once did. Give more of the work to Dawson.”

“Dawson more often angers our tenants than pacifies them.”