The Blacksmith: Order of the Broken Blade

by Mecca, Cecelia

  “Aye, ’twas he who sent me to find you.”

  “Our woodworker has been ill these last few days,” she explained to them. Well, mostly to Guy.

  “I can assist,” Guy offered. “I was once employed by a woodworker in France. A foul man, if truth be told, but skilled nonetheless.”

  Why a woodworker would have use for a mercenary, Lance could only guess. He’d not heard that story before.

  The maid looked at Idalia, who nodded.

  An idea bloomed, and Lance spoke before he could decide against it. “Guy is capable in many areas,” he said, eliciting a smirk from his friend that thankfully neither of the women noticed. “I have no doubt he’ll fix your table if you would continue the tour.” As he finished, he caught Idalia’s gaze at last.

  Her eyes narrowed.

  Guy scowled.

  The maid simply stood there, hands folded, waiting for assistance.

  “Show me the table.” Guy’s tone was nearly brimming with admonishment, but Lance didn’t—and couldn’t—care just now. He wanted to be alone with Idalia to ask her the reason for her animosity toward him this night.

  As if he didn’t already know.

  “This way, sir,” the maid said, still seemingly unaware of the undercurrents in the room. As she led Guy away, he glimpsed a very brief change in Idalia’s expression.

  A crack that he meant to exploit.

  She’s not a damn castle, Lance. She is a woman. A beautiful, kind, and very sensuous woman.

  “Was that wise?” She did not move from her position as Lance shut the door behind the maid. They stood some distance from each other, candles flickering all around them.

  Though it no longer served as a chapel, the remnants of a stone altar stood beside them. Otherwise, it was now nothing more than an empty chamber with more wall torches and candles than he’d ever seen in one space.

  He decided to be honest.

  “Likely not.”

  She frowned. A rare expression, and one he felt ashamed to have elicited.

  He was as good for her as he’d been for his mother. Which was why he turned to leave.

  “Wait.”

  Only a monster would ignore the vulnerability in her voice.

  And he was no monster. For all his faults, Lance was not his father.

  “I . . .”

  He turned back, understanding. She wanted to be alone with him as much as he wished to be alone with her. But wanting did not make a thing possible.

  “Why did you stay?”

  Goddammit.

  Why did she have to ask such a simple, logical question?

  “I’m sorry about that night. I should never have kissed you.”

  It was as blatant a lie as he’d ever told.

  “Then why did you?”

  “Idalia,” he started, and then stopped. This was more dangerous than she realized.

  “Tell me,” she demanded as if she’d been raised to make demands and have them honored.

  Because she had. His lady was an earl’s daughter. She practically ran Stanton Castle.

  “Never in my short life have I wanted to kiss a woman more than I did that night. Than I do now.”

  Lance forgot to be cautious as he moved toward her.

  “More than that, I would like nothing more than to lay you down on that altar, strip you of every bit of clothing, and show you much, much more than a simple kiss.”

  He stood so close now Lance could smell the unique scent of citrus blossom that was Lady Idalia of Stanton.

  “What,” she asked, swallowing, “would you show me?”

  The combination of curiosity and fear in her tone, in her gaze, told him she knew this was wrong. It was madness, really. But she asked, so he answered.

  “I would show you every song your body is capable of singing. I would show you what it means to die the little death and come back to life. I would show you all of me.”

  That last bit, he’d not meant to say.

  But it was true. For once, Lance wanted to share himself with someone. Somehow, he knew she’d not judge him for the sins he’d committed.

  “I would like that,” she said simply.

  Lance shook his head. “As would I. But we cannot.”

  His actions and words were at odds, and Lance knew it well. For even as he continued to shake his head in denial of what could not be, he reached for her.

  She came to him, and melded with him as if she belonged there.

  Capturing her mouth, Lance immediately slanted for better access. He simply could not get enough of her, the kiss quickly spiraling out of control as he spun them around so her back was against the old altar.

  And then he did something utterly mad.

  Staring at her low neckline all night, he’d dreamed of this . . . although he had not imagined it would actually happen. Particularly not in an old chapel.

  He feathered kisses down her long, swanlike neck, which she arced toward him as she grasped his arms. His cock strained, fully erect. Flicking his tongue as he moved lower, he gripped the stone behind her to restrain himself.

  It did not work.

  Groaning, he pulled the material of her gown down. Lower, and lower still, just enough.

  The sight of a bare breast nearly unmanned him. Perfectly round, the nipple so much darker than he’d imagined. Without looking up, he lavished it with the same attention as he had her neck, first circling the taut center, then taking it fully into his mouth.

  Lance wasn’t sure when her hands had moved to his head, but they had, and she was pressing him even closer. So he pushed just a bit further, using his teeth to test. When she gasped, he did it again.

  And then he made the mistake of looking up.

  Eyes hooded, lips in a full pout, Idalia was the final course of the most resplendent meal, and he planned to indulge.

  They had to stop.

  Covering her on both sides, he stood to tell her just that.

  But Idalia was not having it.

  “No, not this time.”

  He looked toward the door. While this area of the keep may be unused, private, they were taking an impossible risk. “They could come back any moment.”

  “Aye.”

  He was almost disappointed she’d agreed with him.

  “Or they could not. But I don’t want you to stop.”

  “Idalia, I—”

  “Show me.”

  Oh God, no. Please, no . . .

  “You know we cannot. You are an earl’s daughter.”

  Not an earl. The earl.

  But he’d awoken something in her. Her chest heaved with unspent desire. She ached for pleasure, and he wished to be the one to give it to her. To be the first to show her the satisfaction a man and woman could find in each other.

  You are risking . . . everything.

  Damned if he cared at this moment.

  “What are you wearing under your shift?”

  That managed to surprise her.

  “Under my shift?”

  “Aye.”

  The woman whose bare breasts were still exposed to his mouth actually blushed. What could possibly make her . . .

  “You’ve nothing under it?” he guessed.

  She shook her head. “Socking on my lower legs of course, but naught else. Roysa chided me for it, but—”

  “Do not be embarrassed.” He emphasized his next word. “Ever.”

  Idalia seemed to understand. With him, there was nothing to shy away from. Lance would never think ill of her. If she wanted to run naked through the courtyard, she should do so.

  Maybe not that.

  Such an act would certainly get him into trouble.

  More trouble than what they were about to do?

  Lance shook away the thought.

  Responding to the look she gave him, and his own desire to see Idalia’s face the first time she was well and truly pleasured, Lance reached under her gown and shift. Where he should have felt hose, his hand found bare flesh instead. He d
idn’t know which of them was more shocked. He’d caressed many bare legs before. But the feel of her soft flesh as he made his way toward his goal . . .

  Groaning, he captured her lips once again. This time, she responded immediately and without reserve. Closer and closer until, “Open your legs a bit for me,” he whispered.

  Still no barrier.

  It was so unexpected he actually paused for a moment before pulling back, wanting to see her expression.

  Moving beyond the curls, which he’d dearly love to see, Lance dared her to tell him to stop. Instead, eyes wide, she opened those pink lips ever so slightly just as he reached her folds.

  “Don’t be afraid.”

  “I’m not.”

  Her quick response humbled him. Why did she trust him so?

  She shouldn’t.

  Another unwanted thought Lance pushed aside.

  He entered her with first one finger and then a second, her gown the only barrier between them as he moved, slowly at first. Though Lance dearly wished to take advantage of the fact that her lips were now parted wide, begging for a kiss, he refused to give into that temptation.

  As he moved his fingers, his thumb circling just the right spot, her chest started rising and falling with greater intensity. His lady was breathing heavily, her cheeks flushed pink.

  Lord, he would give everything, had he anything to give, to see such an expression every day of his life. Her eyelashes fluttered prettily as a beautiful groan escaped her lips.

  She was close.

  “There are many ways for a woman,” he said, “and a man to find pleasure. This . . .”

  He slowed the pace and pulled away, ignoring his cock, which he dearly wished was inside her instead of his fingers. Even thinking it . . .

  No. Stop.

  “This is one way. All I need you to do now, Idalia”—her name was yet another caress—“is let your body relax.”

  Another quick rub with his thumb.

  “Come for me, beautiful.”

  It was not simply an endearment. It was the truth.

  And she listened.

  The wetness against his fingers forced him to close his eyes, steady his breath. Damn if he wasn’t as close to release as he’d ever been without a single touch.

  When he opened his eyes, Lance wished he hadn’t. She looked undone—a few strands of hair had escaped her braid, and her pink cheeks practically glowed in the candlelight, her eyes glistening above them.

  “I would do that again, properly,” he said without thinking.

  “Properly?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

  Lance kissed her then, his hand readjusting her gown as he did.

  “You taste so damn pretty.”

  Idalia smiled. “I cannot taste pretty.”

  He disagreed.

  Then, stepping back regretfully, he glanced toward the door. “If we’d been caught . . .”

  “But we were not.”

  “I’d not have expected you to be so daring,” Lance said as he attempted to force his wayward cock back from the edge.

  “I am not usually so,” she admitted. “Lance?”

  “Aye?” He took a final deep breath to steady himself.

  “I would have you do that again.”

  She said it so casually that Lance couldn’t help but smile, something he’d done much more than usual since meeting Idalia.

  “I would do that, and more, if—”

  They simultaneously turned to the door as it reopened. Their time here, alone together, was at an end.

  13

  Thankfully, her mother had eaten earlier. But she did not look well at all. Her eyes still had a decidedly yellow tint, the same one Father Sica insisted was evidence of the devil’s taint.

  As they awaited the physician Father had sent for from London, Idalia’s mother fluctuated between awareness and sleep. When her eyes popped open, Idalia breathed a sigh of relief. She secretly feared that one day her mother’s eyes would simply remain closed.

  “How long have you been sitting there?”

  As her mother lifted herself to sitting, Idalia rearranged the pillows behind her head. In truth, she’d started her vigil at her mother’s beside just after the midday meal. Idalia could not bring herself to leave even though there was much to be done.

  But her mother disliked hearing that she or her sister had spent so much time in her bedchamber, so she lied.

  “A short while.”

  Marina came in then with a washbowl. She approached the bed and came to a stop beside Idalia, who took the fabric from her hand and dipped it into the still-warm, rose-scented water.

  Her mother hated to be doted on, attended to—for a countess who could have had servants to supply her every need, it had always been just Marina. And yet, she allowed Idalia to wash her anyway.

  Avoiding her mother’s eyes as she worked, Idalia wrung out the cloth and dipped it into the water again.

  “Tell me.”

  Startled, she dropped the cloth into the water. Her mother typically reserved that tone for times when a firm hand was needed.

  Picking the dripping cloth back up, she wrung it out once more. “Pardon?”

  Her mother reached for her hand as she glided the cloth across her exposed arm, the sleeveless shift one of many her mother wore these days.

  Her beautiful gowns sat unused in their storage chests.

  “I do not know—”

  “Tell me, Idalia. What troubles you?”

  Even before the countess had fallen ill, some also whispered that she was a witch. An absurd claim, of course, but as much as the people of Stanton loved her, even Idalia could not deny her mother’s ability to know what she shouldn’t.

  If the miller’s wife was ill, her mother knew of it. When one of the kitchen maids was with child, her mother told the girl even before she realized it herself.

  She knew . . . everything.

  But, ill as she was, Idalia hadn’t expected her to pick up on the fact that her daughter’s world had changed forever, that her every thought was consumed by a certain smith. She’d not seen him all day. Thankfully, his friend Guy had not seen anything more untoward than two people standing precariously close to one another. But surely he suspected something.

  Even now, the thought of seeing him at the evening meal . . .

  “A man,” her mother said, guessing.

  She could not deny it. But could she admit to which man had captured her heart?

  Idalia did not fear her mother would send Lance away. It was something her father might do if he ever discovered what was between them. But her mother? Nay.

  But that didn’t mean she’d condone such behavior. As Lance had said himself, she was the daughter of an earl. Her husband would be a man whose station could match, or elevate, her own.

  “The blacksmith,” Marina blurted out.

  Idalia’s mouth dropped open. She stared at the maid, shocked. “How . . . ?”

  Had someone seen them coming, or leaving, from the Small Tower? Plenty of people spied her giving Lance and Guy a tour of the keep, but that was not such an unusual thing to do.

  She realized her mistake at once—her reaction had confirmed Marina’s words.

  Her head whipped back to her mother, who was giving her an inscrutable look.

  “The same one who forged that bracelet for me.”

  Idalia wanted to bolt up from the bed and run away. She didn’t, of course, but the urge to do so was overwhelming.

  “Aye.” Her heart pounded as she waited for her mother’s reaction.

  The Countess of Stanton may be ill, but the fire in her eyes had not died. The woman who looked back at her was the same woman who’d commanded Stanton’s men when Idalia was but six years old. The earl had ridden off to the Holy Land with the king, leaving Stanton in her capable hands. When a Scottish border lord laid siege to the castle, believing the earl’s absence signaled the castle was ripe for the taking, Idalia’s mother had stopped him.

  �
�Bring him here,” her mother said in that same commanding tone.

  Bring him here?

  “Mama, please do not dismiss him. Lance is a good man.”

  Her mother raised a hand, stopping her pleas. “Dismiss him? Has he done something that would warrant such an action?”

  She pushed away the thought that had immediately popped into her head—Lance with his mouth on her breast and his hand under her skirts. “Nay.”

  “Then why would you believe I’d do such a thing?”

  Idalia glanced back up at Marina, who simply shrugged.

  Traitor.

  “He . . . because he is a smith. And I—”

  “Are a woman. We should have had this discussion much sooner. Especially now that Roysa is married.”

  Idalia groaned inside, though she did not dare to make such a sound out loud.

  “Mother, please.”

  “I was married. Before your father.”

  Her hands stilled, the wet cloth hanging from them. Idalia searched her mother’s face for any indication she was jesting, but those yellow-tinted eyes stared back at her, unwavering.

  “You were married to another man?”

  “It was many, many years ago. But aye, I married a man with whom I’d fallen in love. He was a warrior. The son of a Scottish reiver.”

  This could not be true.

  “You were married to a . . . reiver? A Scot?”

  Marina moved away as Idalia’s mother spoke.

  “We married in secret. My father did not approve.” Her mother, already pale, appeared even more so now. She’d not met either of her grandparents, both of whom had died before she was born, but she’d heard of them, of course. Her grandfather had been a powerful border lord, an English baron whose title had passed on to Idalia’s uncle.

  But never had she heard a hint of this other man, this other husband. Did her father know? Her sisters? Nay, they would have said something.

  “This was surely a scandal?”

  Her mother’s weak smile made it impossible for her to be angry at her for keeping such a secret.

  “Very much so. When he died less than a year later in a raid . . .”

  Her mother closed her eyes, and Idalia edged closer to her. She hated seeing her in pain, physical or the kind that came from the memory of lost love.