She complied most willingly. The sensation of his tongue touching hers as his lips moved over her own . . . she was pretty sure this was the most pleasant thing she’d ever experienced in her life.
Idalia never wanted it to end.
But it did.
“Surely you’ll be missed soon?” Lance said, pulling away although he looked reluctant to do so.
“Not at this time. Come morning, always.”
He reached up to a lock of her hair that had fallen forward.
“You are the lady of Stanton in your mother’s stead.”
Lance twirled the hair between his fingers.
“Aye.”
“But you do not mind it.”
She looked at her hair between his fingers out of the corner of her eye. It seemed such an intimate thing for him to do. But surely not as intimate as the kisses they shared.
“Nay. It makes me happy to see Stanton thrive. If it were not for Mother . . .”
He dropped her hair then, but she smiled when his hand returned to her waist to join the other.
“Tell me of her.”
She thought not of the woman lying in bed, but of the mother who had raised her and her sisters. The woman who’d always been so full of life.
“She is the most remarkable woman in the world. Kind. Full of joy and love for all. If she has any faults, I don’t know of them. Everyone is a better person with her near.”
Lance looked at her curiously.
“You do not believe me?”
“Nay, ’tis not that. I believe you all too well. But wonder if you speak of your mother or someone else?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, her brow furrowing.
The look in his eyes was her answer. He was telling her that she’d described her own qualities.
“I have many faults,” she argued.
“Name one.”
“Weakness. You are not my husband, yet here I am, standing in your arms. Wishing you would kiss me again.”
He did, but it was only a short kiss this time. When he pulled away, he sighed and said, “I would argue we are all weak to some extent.”
“Even you?”
“Especially me.”
Lance stepped away from her then, and she felt the loss immediately.
“Does that mean we can meet again?”
His gaze never wavered.
“If you were caught with me . . .”
“You’re worried for your position here,” she said, her voice flat. By his expression, Idalia knew her guess was correct. “I would never betray you.”
Lance sighed heavily, looking at her with a combination of longing and regret. His shoulders sagged. “It was wrong of me to come here tonight. You are Lady Idalia—”
“Nay. I am simply Idalia.”
“And I am nothing more than a smith.”
She wanted to argue with him. But he was, indeed, a blacksmith. A man she could never be with for more than a few stolen moments. He left her with a sad smile and the knowledge that her passion had been awakened, and dampened, all in one night.
11
“I am not your damn apprentice,” Guy said, but as he did so he tossed Lance a pair of pliers.
Catching them, Lance winked at his actual apprentices, both of whom giggled at his friend’s joke. Guy had spent the day with them in the forge. Yesterday, he’d done the same. The distraction had helped Lance stay away from Idalia, although it had done nothing to stop him from thinking about her. He doubted if anything could.
“Go ahead,” he told the boys. Darkness had already fallen, and it was time for them to go home.
Guy watched the brothers leave. “Good boys, those two. Like we once were.”
Lance didn’t flinch, although he knew at once what Guy spoke of. He was convinced Guy simply liked to argue. Why else would he have brought up the incident again, all these years later?
“But would you call our actions ‘good’?”
“Yes.” Lance started cleaning the shop as he spoke. Not willing to be dragged into one of Guy’s mental meanderings—the man could talk for hours without reaching a resolution—he changed the topic. “How long do you plan to stay at Stanton?”
He’d been here for two days, and while Lance was genuinely glad to see his friend, Guy’s presence had not helped him make connections with the people here. Everything about Guy was . . . grand. His looks. His gestures. The mercenary had made it his life’s work to attract attention—something that usually helped him find a new master willing to pay for his services.
Which was exactly why Lance had attempted to keep him contained in the forge. Lance’s goal wasn’t to attract attention here at Stanton—he needed to blend in, to become one of them. It was the only way anyone would dare lower their guard around him. The only way they might admit to entertaining a hint of opposition against the king. Only then could he gauge if Idalia’s father might be receptive to them.
Idalia’s father.
When had the Earl of Stanton become Idalia’s father?
Two nights ago when you kissed her, that’s when.
“You’re thinking of the girl again.”
“Hardly a girl,” he said, tossing his apron onto the stool.
“If you allowed me into the hall again, I might observe her better myself and form an opinion.”
He rolled his eyes. “Exactly the reason we don’t venture there.”
Guy crossed his arms. “You want to be rid of me, do you not?”
“Aye.” He didn’t bother hiding what his friend already knew.
“And I want to appease my curiosity before I go. The only woman to ever catch the eye of Lancelin Wayland of Marwood. She must be a beauty indeed.”
“You’ll not meet her.” He’d kept his friend within sight at all times to ensure it.
Guy sat next to the dying flames, the forge’s fire nearly extinguished for the night.
“You forget our purpose,” Lance muttered.
“I forget our purpose? You have an intimate encounter with a woman who can give you direct access to the very man whose support we need, and I forget my purpose?”
He should never have told him, but Guy could be persuasive, and apparently Lance did not hide his feelings well. An oddity, that—he’d always thought he was an expert at that particular talent. When he’d come back from meeting Idalia two nights ago, Lance had not intended to share anything with his friend.
But he’d confessed all in the end, and had been paying the price since.
“We’ve been through this . . .”
“Aye, and you’re still in the wrong of it. But this is your mission, not mine. I’ve brought my man to our cause, and now you must do the same.”
“My mission,” he grumbled. “You’d do well to remember that.”
Guy ignored his warning. “If only we could eat a real meal this eve.”
He would live to regret this.
“You’ll remember, my goal here is to assimilate. Not bring attention.”
Guy bounded up from the stool, clearly sensing weakness. “As you will.” He placed a hand on his stomach. “A right fine meal. I look forward to it.” He made to leave the shop.
“Say nothing.”
“My specialty,” Guy called back from the doorway.
His friend’s specialty was wreaking havoc wherever he went. But if he were being honest with himself, Lance wanted to see Idalia.
Even though he should not.
No good could come from making an appearance in the hall, especially with Guy, but he would take the excuse anyway. Just for a glimpse. He wouldn’t speak to her, but one quick look might help ease his tortured soul.
One he knew, if given the chance, Idalia could heal.
* * *
“You’ve done well, daughter.”
Idalia was indulging herself in a quick glance at Lance, who had come into the hall earlier with his friend.
“Pardon?” she asked her father.
He rarely praised her,
and Idalia did not know what to think of it. While the words were welcome, they appeared to be somewhat forced.
Which could only mean one thing—it wasn’t his own sentiment.
“You’ve been with Mother?”
Her father raised his chin as he often did when he did not want to answer a question. Tilly snickered beside her, having evidently heard the entire exchange.
“Aye. When did Lord Sheely arrive?”
“Earlier today,” she said. “Dawson told him you were not available, so he appealed to me for an audience.”
Although they rarely turned away a visitor, not all were equally welcome. Especially one who had come to collect the king’s coin. It was no secret her father despised Lord Sheely. And since their neighbor to the south had been made royal tax collector, he had become even more insufferable than usual. His visit was yet another reminder that the king’s taxes had become a heavier burden for them to bear.
Her father grunted.
“You will not be able to avoid him for much longer,” she said, resisting the urge to look toward the back of the hall.
“I can attempt it,” he muttered, making her smile just slightly.
“Is it true,” she asked, taking a spoonful of soup, “he keeps a portion of the coin he collects?”
Dawson had told her that this afternoon, after they’d shown Lord Sheely to one of the empty chambers. But the seneschal was also known to tell tall tales and gossip.
“Aye.” Her father took a swig of ale, a cue he was finished speaking on the topic. So she turned to Tilly instead.
But not before taking another glance at him.
He was watching her.
“You have an odd look about you,” Tilly said.
She looked away immediately, her eyes landing on her sister.
“I don’t.”
“Aye, you do.”
She would not bicker with her sister in front of their guests and retainers. Especially since Tilly was likely correct. In the past few days, everything had felt odd.
Before, she’d been content to move about her daily routine.
But that was before Lance.
Before his kisses.
Before the longing looks he was giving her, which seemed to say he regretted their decision as much as she did.
Stop. Looking.
“I spoke to the physician this morning,” she said to both her father and sister, hoping to distract Tilly, and herself, from the reason Idalia could hardly form a coherent thought.
“The physician is glad she’s eating but worries her condition does not seem to be improving.”
“His worries are not helping her heal,” her father said, his tone edged with frustration. “’Tis good I sent for another physician from London.”
“Nay, they are not. I am glad of it as well.”
“And there are whispers again.” It was Tilly who’d spoken, and Idalia and her father both turned to her in surprise.
“I slipped into the bakery before supper and heard him speaking of . . .” Her sister stopped and made a face. Idalia could guess the reason.
“Father Sica?”
“Aye. Apparently he told Cook, who told a kitchen maid—”
“Tilly,” her father warned.
He hated that her sister involved herself in gossip. But no matter how often Tilly was told to refrain from such matters, she continued to do just the opposite. Her mother and father had gotten into many disagreements about her sister’s “wayward” behavior, but none of it seemed to affect her.
Tilly was . . . unique. And Idalia loved her for it.
“I will speak to him.” Her father raised his mug to the captain of the men-at arms, the gesture telling them both, in no uncertain terms, he was finished speaking on the matter.
Which left her to . . .
No. Don’t look.
She looked.
Lance was speaking to the other men at his table, who seemed to be slowly accepting the new smith. Which reminded her to speak to the hayward. He had influence with the others and could be persuaded to give the smith a chance to find his footing at Stanton.
He may not need her help, but Idalia could not resist the urge to help him. Being alone in a new place could not be easy, especially when the old smith had essentially been part of their family.
Lance met her eyes and held them, his expression serious.
He smiled so little. Why?
Unbidden, she thought of his lips on hers, slanting for complete access, which she’d so willingly given him. It was as if some other woman had stood upon those ramparts with him. Certainly Idalia would not have allowed such liberties.
Aye, it was you. And you enjoyed every moment of it.
As the meal ended, she assumed he would leave with the others. But with more than half of the hall already cleared, both Lance and his friend remained.
“Confound Sheely,” her father muttered suddenly, his tone too soft to be heard farther down the table. “Have you heard his blathering? He’s more than halfway up John’s arse, but . . .”
He cut himself off.
It was the kind of comment he’d have made to her mother. She suspected he’d forgotten his daughter sat beside him and that his wife lay asleep in her sickbed. Her father stood, joined by everyone else in the hall, including his daughters.
The meal was now officially over.
Tilly wasted no time bounding up from her seat, off to their mother’s chamber. Idalia normally sat with Mother midday until preparations for the evening meal demanded her attention, and despite Father’s protestations that they must leave their mother to sleep, Tilly enjoyed crawling into her bed in the evening. Which left Idalia to walk among their retainers, listening to informal complaints and even a kind word every so often.
Still, as she made her rounds from table to table, he stayed.
Before long, she had been to every table but his. Avoiding it would seem unnatural.
Attending to it, disastrous.
But she had no choice.
“Good eve,” she said, approaching. Only four men remained, including Lance and the mercenary. Idalia concentrated on the others until she was forced to give the smith her attention.
“I do not believe I’ve had the pleasure of an introduction,” she said as the mercenary stood.
“Sir Guy Lavallais of Cradney Wrens, my lady.”
“May I present,” Lance said, standing as well, “Lady Idalia, daughter to the Earl of Stanton.” Though he’d finished with the introduction, it almost seemed as if he had more to say.
“Sir?” she blurted out without thinking, forcing her gaze back to the mercenary. “La . . . Master Lance mentioned you’d arrived here a few short days ago at Stanton. I do hope your stay has been a pleasurable one.”
“It has, my lady. And made more pleasurable this eve, if I may be so bold to say so.”
Ah, she knew his kind well. This was the kind of man accustomed to taking whatever he wanted. A handsome rogue. Hair that appeared dark now but not so much it would remain that way in the sun. Full brows and lips, which lifted slightly now. But his sweetened words had no effect on her. Roysa, had she not been wed, would have fallen for the handsome man in a trice. Which was no disrespect to her sister. Roysa herself admitted to being smitten with rogues.
Idalia had different taste.
Lance was looking at her, eyes hooded. She wished she could remind him that he had been the one to put distance between them.
Because right now, he looked as if he wanted anything but.
Idalia’s pulse raced at the thought of being alone with him again.
“May I compliment you on the beauty of Stanton Castle?” Sir Guy said.
“I would be pleased to show it to you.” Doing so was one of her favorite duties, one she’d gladly assumed from Dawson. Idalia was quite proud of what her family had managed to accomplish with the Anglo-Saxon structure.
“It is well lit,” she rushed to explain, “so there’s no reason to wait for mo
rning. My day is often taken up with many other duties . . .”
The mercenary stepped away from the trestle table. “We would be most honored to tour the keep now.” He looked at Lance, who definitely did not look honored.
In fact, he appeared to want to throttle his friend. The interest and desire with which he’d regarded her earlier in the night was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps she’d imagined it.
Idalia ignored that uncomfortable thought, excused herself, and spoke to one of the maids to arrange for her to assist Cook in the kitchen’s cleaning. Rejoining them, she could not help but notice the difference between the men. Lance scowled. Sir Guy—a knight, which she would not have guessed—grinned like a squire who had just been given praise by his master.
“This,” she said, addressing Sir Guy, “is the great hall of Stanton Castle, although you’ve obviously surmised as much already.”
The tour would be simple. Ignore Lance. Pretend she was not hurt by his rejection. Distract herself by interacting with his friend. She would hardly even remember he existed.
12
Frustration coiled in Lance’s stomach. His shoulders tensed. Every time she looked at him, he envisioned hauling her against him, continuing where they’d left off two nights before.
There was much he would love to teach her.
As Idalia showed Guy about the keep, she spoke only to him. And his friend’s easy grins did nothing to alleviate Lance’s rapidly deteriorating humor.
“This is one of the only private areas in the keep,” she said, bringing them into a small chamber on the ground floor. “It was once the chapel, before the other was built more than twenty years ago.”
“Why is it so well lit, being abandoned?” Guy asked.
He’d wondered the same but didn’t trust himself to speak.
“My lady,” a voice interrupted from the door. The maid looked as if she’d run through the entirety of the keep. “I was told you might have come this way. Pardon for disturbing you, but the leg seems to be broken on one of the tables in the great hall. It’s been carried away but needs repair before morn.”
“Did you speak to Dawson?”
The seneschal seemed a nice enough man, but he certainly was not the one maintaining Stanton in the countess’s absence.
The Blacksmith: Order of the Broken Blade Page 7