“What are you doing here?”
Guy released him and nodded toward Daryon, who was now cooling his handiwork in a bath of water. He understood. It wouldn’t do to talk openly in front of the boy.
Guy approached the boy, who’d set down his tools, hand outstretched.
The mercenary could be both brash and callous, but he could act the part of a gentleman when he so chose.
Taking off his glove, the boy stuck his hand out tentatively.
“You are a lucky boy,” Guy said to the bewildered apprentice. “Your master is the most sought-after smith in all of England.”
Daryon’s eyes widened to the size of coins.
“Truly? All of England?”
“And Scotland too,” Guy boasted.
Lance rolled his eyes, though neither of them noticed.
“I’ve even heard them speak of him in France, so coveted is his work.”
“Daryon,” Lance interrupted. “Go find your brother. I will finish up in here.”
The boy looked down at the shoe. The expression in his eyes spoke of a certain longing.
“We’ll be sure to show Miles tomorrow before giving them over to the marshal,” he said, reading the boy’s thoughts.
The boy grinned at him before scampering out of the forge. The door nearly always remained open to allow sunlight in and smoke out, but Lance shut it behind Daryon as he automatically began to clean the shop.
“You’re earlier than expected,” he noted.
They’d agreed it would take Lance at least a sennight to gather the information they needed, perhaps more.
“I’m impatient.”
“I have little information yet.”
Guy leaned against the only semiclean surface in the shop, the stone wall behind him. “We have Baron Chauncey.”
Lance whistled. The East Anglian landowner was both the itinerant justice on the eastern circuit and sheriff of Norfolk and Suffolk. Unlike Stanton, he was unusually vocal with his grievances against the king. Most expected his tenure as the king’s servant to end at any moment.
But for now, he was a powerful ally, and not one Lance would have expected the order to secure so soon.
“Conrad managed it?”
Guy nodded. “He spoke to him just after you left.”
“The baron will be discreet?”
“Our treason is his own.”
A typical Guy answer. For as many years as the two had known each other, Lance still had a difficult time gaining direct answers from his friend.
“And how have you fared?”
Each of them had support to gather. That his role was as important as the others left Lance more humbled than he’d shared with the men.
“I’ve not seen Terric since the tournament,” he said of their friend whose role was nothing less than gaining the support of the king of Scotland. “But Fitzwalter is ours.”
“So quickly?”
Guy’s smile was his only answer. All knew Robert Fitzwalter had a personal reason to dislike the king, but that Guy was able to secure him to their cause so quickly was still surprising.
“Stanton?” Guy asked.
Moving toward the only open window with a clear view of the path leading to the forge, Lance adjusted the shutters—leaving them open only a crack so he could spy the path—and turned back to his friend.
“I’m still not sure where his loyalties lie. The people here have yet to embrace me. That the previous blacksmith here was beloved by all hasn’t helped my cause.”
Guy snickered. “Your dour disposition is unlikely to have helped.”
Lance cocked his head to the side. “If only we could all be as pleasant as you.”
They both knew the description hardly fit. While it was true Guy smiled more easily, those who knew him would not use the word “pleasant” to describe him.
Confident. Witty, sometimes cuttingly so.
But not “pleasant.”
“What have you learned?”
With a glance through the crack in the shutters, he thought about the conversations he’d had in the past few days.
“Two of the king’s men were housed at Stanton when I arrived.”
Guy groaned.
“But I don’t believe the welcome they were given goes beyond simple hospitality. I’ve been listening, and while none of the people here are openly hostile, the general sentiment seems to align with our own.”
“Have you spoken to the earl?”
“Briefly.” Lance glanced through the gap in the shutters again. The sun was beginning to set, each minute bringing him closer to his arranged meeting with Idalia.
Guy watched him.
“You’re withholding something.”
As soon as his friend had arrived, Lance had known his connection with Idalia could remain a secret no longer. Guy was the type to ask uncomfortable questions. Always had been.
“I presented him with a gift during their Gule of August feast. I learned nothing of import.”
Guy only looked at him with a raised brow, his meaning obvious. He was not about to stand down unless Lance told him all.
“I have spoken to his daughter,” he admitted.
“And what have you learned from her?”
Lance kept his expression neutral. “That her mother, the countess, is extremely ill. ’Twas Lady Idalia who suggested I bring a gift for her father on the feast day.”
“And?”
He sighed. “Nothing more, although the gift was well received.”
Still, Guy waited.
“I am meeting her on the battlements after supper,” he said as clearly as if his mouth were filled with porridge.
And, of course, got the exact reaction he had feared.
“Pardon?” Guy leaned forward. “It sounded as if you said you were meeting the earl’s daughter in some private place at a preordained time this evening.”
Lance ground his teeth.
“I presume you’ve spoken to the woman on other occasions?”
He remained silent, which was confirmation enough.
“How old is the earl’s daughter?”
“The same age we were when we met.” Of course, Guy had not asked which daughter. And Lady Tilly was likely around ten and three or ten and four.
Guy’s eyes narrowed. “Does he have more than one daughter?”
Lance tried not to smile, something not normally a problem for him given that smiling hadn’t come easily to him since he was a young boy.
“Aye.”
“By the blood of Christ, Lance.”
He conceded finally. “His eldest daughter is married and gone. The middle one, Lady Idalia, is a few years younger than I am, mayhap twenty and two? And aye, before you ask, she is quite comely.” He paused, then added, “In answer to the other question you have not yet asked, I will not use my relations with her for our cause.”
Guy’s ever-present grin faltered.
“Think about this carefully.”
“I have. And will not do it.”
Lance had thought of little else since the night before. The earl depended on his daughter, more than he realized, and she would be a powerful ally. But he refused to manipulate the lady, especially given the trust she’d shown him.
On this, he would not waver.
“You do understand the importance of this mission?”
“You expect me to answer that?”
He wasn’t angry, exactly. Lance could understand his friend’s position.
“You could make this easier than we ever expected,” Guy said.
Lance moved to open the door. “We eat in the hall.”
He left Guy behind, not waiting for the footsteps he heard moments later. “Are you staying the night?”
Catching up to him, Guy made a grunt of assent as they circled around the forge to the small two-room building that was Lance’s new home.
“I’m off to wash in the stream just outside the gate, but you’re welcome to wait here.”
; Before his friend could press him on Idalia any further, he walked away, the echo of Guy’s curses following him.
10
He wasn’t coming.
Idalia looked down at her hands, clasped together in front of her. Despite the unfashionableness of her gown, she liked not having to pull back low-hanging sleeves. Her sister Roysa shook her head every time Idalia wore it, or a similar gown.
Despite Roysa’s ability to make her feel small with naught but a look, Idalia missed her terribly. Roysa, like her mother, always knew what to say. How to act. Who to tend to first. She’d been raised as the eldest. And Tilly, the youngest.
Idalia was ever the middle child—the one who was sometimes forgotten—although she’d never much cared about that. As long as her family was safe and content, she was happy. She’d never wanted anything else, or even thought to want anything else.
Until now.
The steadfast nature of her emotions, a quality her father had always admired, seemed to have abandoned her of late. Or, more specifically, since Lance had come to Stanton.
Knowing it was wrong did not make her thoughts of him go away. Instead, she found herself conjuring his face all day. Sitting with her mother, who seemed a bit better today thankfully, Idalia had sworn to herself she would not think of him once. Her mother deserved more than a wayward daughter who did naught but daydream about a man she could never have.
But he’d refused to leave her thoughts.
Her mother, of course, had noticed her distraction. Idalia had insisted it was naught but the weight of acting as the lady of Stanton. Since she’d missed the last market day, they were low on both grain and wine, and it would fall to her to resolve the problem.
And yet, her disquiet came from an altogether different source.
Idalia was falling for the smith.
Which, of course, was not very practical. Nearly every day since Roysa’s wedding, she’d expected her father to make an announcement about a new betrothal. If not for her mother’s illness, Idalia did not doubt she’d already be married or nearly so.
And yet, here she was, waiting for Lance.
It was well past the time they’d met the night before. Which was really just as well—she should not be here anyway. No matter what she wished, this meeting could serve no real purpose. Perhaps he had come to the same conclusion.
With a final glance at the specks of orange and yellow light moving to and fro in the village, Idalia turned away.
And gasped.
“I did not even hear you approach.”
Her heart began to beat wildly, much like it had the night before, as she took in Lance’s casual attire. His shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows, and the low-hanging top gave more than a glimpse of the sculpted chest beneath. And though it was covered now, she thought of the mark on his upper arm. And of the muscles beneath it.
“You were leaving.”
No emotion. No judgement. Just a simple statement.
“Aye. I thought perhaps you’d changed your mind.”
Idalia had never, ever wanted to be touched by someone this badly before. They stood within touching distance, and she could not help but imagine his hand reaching out, making contact with her skin. She licked her lips, realized she’d done so, and tried, unsuccessfully, to catch her breath.
“I have a visitor.”
He didn’t move, and neither did she.
“Oh?”
“A friend.”
“A friend,” she repeated, waiting for more. Then, remembering he was a man of few words, she prompted him further. “What is your friend’s name?”
“Guy.” He blinked. “Guy Lavallais.”
“Is he a smith also?”
The way he was looking at her made Idalia shift her weight from one foot to the other. She wanted to crawl out of her own skin. Impatient for . . . something.
Nay, for him. To know his touch. Lance kept his thoughts and emotions to himself—she’d quickly realized that much—but she wanted to know them. To know him. She wanted to get closer to him.
“He is a mercenary.”
“Oh.”
She wasn’t sure what to say to that. Idalia had never met a mercenary before. Stanton had no use of them, but certainly she’d heard of such men.
“For?”
“For whomever pays him the most coin.”
Idalia swallowed, berating herself for asking. “I see.”
“We met at the Tournament of the North many years ago, when we were both boys.”
She had questions, but Lance did not seem inclined to offer many answers.
“Are you always so . . . ?” She struggled to find the right word.
“Reticent?” he provided with a glimmer of amusement.
“Aye.” She supposed it would do.
“Most often, yes.”
“You don’t have any siblings, do you?”
“How did you guess?”
She smiled, imagining Roysa standing there with them now. “You would not have been allowed to say so few words with sisters around.”
He actually smiled. “I could have brothers.”
“But you do not.”
“Nay, I do not.”
“I have no real notion of who you are, Lance Wayland.” Indeed, the facts she’d collected were thin. All she knew of his past was that he’d trained under a father he disliked, lost his mother, and had no siblings. Now he was here at Stanton, where people shunned him for not being Roland. But she hoarded those few facts as if they were gold coins—and she wanted more.
When he took another step closer, Idalia knew something was about to happen.
Nay, not something. More than something.
And she was as powerless to stop it as she was to heal her mother. Or make her father notice she was more than a glorified steward.
So she stood there, immobile. Attempting to breathe like a normal person.
“What do you want to know?”
Her eyes raised to his lips.
“That, my lady, will get us both into trouble.”
She looked up. “That?”
“Aye. That.”
She did know, of course, to what he was referring. Idalia glanced over to where the guard would be standing, but he was out of view from where they stood behind the tower’s entrance.
“Idalia . . .”
Lance’s shoulders rose and fell.
That will get us into trouble.
He was right.
Idalia turned back toward the battlements only to be spun back around. Two firm hands guided her face toward him. And, just like that, his lips were on hers.
She kissed him back, his lips so soft and warm.
He pulled back abruptly.
“You’ve not kissed a man before.”
“I . . . I have.”
His hand still cupped her face.
Lance brought her toward him once again. This time, with a hair’s breadth between them, he said, “Don’t be scared.”
“Scared?”
When he touched her this time, she closed her eyes. And nearly jumped when she felt his tongue gliding along the crease between her lips. Opening them just slightly, Idalia startled to realize his tongue was still there. She touched hers to his, not sure if that was right.
It certainly felt right.
His mouth slanted across hers, showing her what to do next.
She followed his lead, becoming bolder as his hands moved from her face to the back of her head. He pulled her closer, and when she responded by wrapping her arms around his shoulders, the sound that came from deep within him shook her to her very core.
It was a sound of pleasure. Of longing.
He desired her.
That thought, coupled with what he was doing to her mouth, enveloped Idalia in a way she’d never experienced before. She wanted to be even closer, surrounded by this man in every way. And she must have communicated that with her lips, because he pulled her toward him.
She let her fingers re
st on the nape of his neck as his mouth slanted over hers.
When he pulled away, she licked her lips instinctively, wanting to taste where he had just been.
“You learn quickly.”
Though he didn’t let go, Lance looked in the direction of the guard. They were still hidden, though in truth, Idalia should be more worried about being discovered.
Instead, she wished to know how Lance felt about what had just happened.
“My tutor said the same.”
His brows raised. “Tutor, aye?”
A laugh welled inside her chest and escaped in a most unusual sound. Almost as if it were a giggle. But Idalia did not giggle. That was usually the purview of her younger sister.
“You know very well what kind of tutor I meant.”
He looked at her lips, and Idalia nearly blurted out the question.
Will you kiss me again?
“I enjoyed that very much.”
“As much as the other kisses?”
“The other . . .” Then she remembered telling him she had been kissed before. “They were nothing like that.”
He leaned down, opening her mouth as he’d done before. This time, she knew immediately what to do and matched his tongue’s caresses with her own. When a loud clang from below them rang out, she pulled away.
But not out of his arms.
“Likely,” he said, loosening his grip just slightly, “because an earl’s daughter should not be kissed that way. At least not by someone other than her husband.”
“How sorrowful that is.”
When he laughed, Idalia’s chest swelled with happiness. It was such a rare sound from him, and all the more treasured for it.
“You should laugh more often.”
“You should kiss more often.”
Her smile felt wide enough to split her face in two.
“You believe so? I wonder, will anyone else be willing to instruct me?” She pretended to think. “I’ve no suitors currently, but—”
“I meant me.”
Of course he had. But Idalia took immeasurable joy in teasing this man who’d obviously had so little lightness in his life.
“Oh dear, I did not realize.”
He stopped her with another kiss, and this time, he did not coax her mouth open. This time, he silently demanded it as soon as their lips touched.
The Blacksmith: Order of the Broken Blade Page 6