The Blacksmith: Order of the Broken Blade

by Mecca, Cecelia

  “I dare say my father was not pleased. And I never forgave him for his treatment of the man.” She opened her eyes. “Much as he never forgave me for what I’d done.”

  “Does Father know?”

  “He does. Our betrothal had already been pledged when he learned of it. My father said I was lucky such a man was still willing to marry me. No longer a virgin.” She winked. Her mother actually winked.

  Idalia’s heart soared at the simple gesture. This was the charming, strong-willed woman she remembered.

  “I came to love him, your father. As you well know. But in the beginning, I felt nothing but anger and resentment. It was a trying time for us all.”

  “You never told us.” The bitter words slipped out.

  “And I never planned to,” her mother admitted. She looked tired now, her eyelids growing heavy again. Their conversation was coming to an end.

  “Why do you tell me now?”

  Lying back down, her mother closed her eyes. “Bring him to me,” she muttered, bringing an end to their rather odd conversation.

  The cloth now cold in her hands, Idalia watched her mother drift off to sleep. She turned to find Marina sitting near the fire, bowl in her lap.

  The older woman did not look even a tiny bit repentant.

  Idalia narrowed her eyes, attempting to give Marina the same withering look her mother could summon when displeased. But it must have failed because the impertinent maid chuckled. She actually laughed at her. Idalia may be doing her mother’s job, but she was not her equal.

  At least, not yet.

  Then she thought of her mother’s request.

  Lance was not going to be pleased.

  14

  “What did you say?” Lance hoped he’d misheard her. It sounded as if the countess, lying sick in her bedchamber, wanted to see him.

  He’d spent the meal attempting to avoid overtly staring at Idalia, knowing it would only remind Guy, who had decided to stay, of his indiscretion.

  With the earl’s daughter.

  They’d barely finished their repast when he saw the flash of royal blue moving toward them—Idalia. Her father had never come to the hall for supper, but according to the men around them, such an occurrence was not unusual. He’d made fewer and fewer appearances since the countess had taken ill.

  Idalia’s expression confirmed he had heard her correctly. Her gaze shot to Guy, who’d taken a few steps away, giving them as much privacy as was possible in the hall, although he could clearly hear all that was being said.

  “She guessed something was amiss. And inquired after the cause. How Marina knew, I’m still unsure. The cowardly maid ran off before I could get the full story, but it seems—”

  “Idalia.” Lance’s tone was calm, assured. Not at all what she’d been expecting, he could see. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

  He meant every word—the last thing he wanted was for her to feel ashamed—but he didn’t need the censorious look Guy was currently giving him to know he’d made a grave mistake.

  If Lady Emmeline wished to speak to him about her daughter, this could very well be his last day as smith at Stanton Castle. Which would leave him with two choices. Asking the earl directly for his position on the king’s policies, at the risk of being branded a traitor, or leave without the support they so desperately needed.

  Neither option was desirable, and he deserved Guy’s censure for having put himself—them—in this position.

  “I do believe your friend thinks otherwise,” Idalia said, glancing at Guy.

  It was his turn to silently warn off the mercenary, not an easy task as Guy rarely backed down. But he did now, for her sake.

  Ever the gentleman.

  “Will you come with me?”

  Dammit. This was not good. “Now?”

  “Aye,” she answered sheepishly. “My mother can be a tad impatient. She was resting when I left, but if I know her . . .”

  She trailed off, leaving him with no choice but to comply.

  “If you’ll pardon him a moment,” she said to Guy, who bowed in parting. “This way.”

  He followed her through torchlit hallways and up a circular stairwell at the back of the hall. As they climbed higher and higher, Lance realized he was in trouble for a different reason than he’d anticipated.

  About to put the most important mission of his life in jeopardy, he could think of only one thing as the stairs beneath their feet gave way to a small empty corridor. Lance would like nothing more than to spin Idalia around and ensure she would remember him fondly if they were separated after this meeting.

  Indeed, when she stopped and turned, he nearly gave into such folly. Her lips parted, and Lord if he would not like to kiss them.

  “I am sorry,” she said, unmoving.

  “There is nothing to be sorry for.”

  He had no idea how close they were to her mother’s chamber. Lance only knew, in this moment, they were alone.

  Cursing himself, he nonetheless found himself reaching for her. Grasping the back of her neck, he pulled her toward him, taking full advantage of her acquiescence. In no time, the kiss spiraled from a quick joining to one that threatened to make him lose control.

  What is wrong with me?

  He pulled away, regrettably.

  “I could not resist . . .”

  “I’m glad for it,” she whispered.

  The way she said it told him he was not the only one who feared they might be parted. There was nothing for it, but the thought saddened him more than it should. More, even, than the possible failure of his mission.

  “Come.”

  She spun away from him then, down the corridor and toward yet another stairwell. When they came to a door at the top of the tower, Lance took a deep breath. And followed Idalia inside.

  The round chamber was dark, and despite the warmth outside, a fire roared in the hearth adjacent to one of the largest beds Lance had ever seen. Canopied, it took up an entire wall, making the lady who lay in it look absurdly small.

  Her yellow-tinted eyes flew open and immediately sought him out.

  Following Idalia closer to the countess, he watched as she pulled the coverlet down and sat up. She looked near identical to Idalia, although older and decidedly ill. Though her movements were slow, she did not appear frail in any way. But as they approached, he could see she was in pain. Wincing, she sat against pillows, which Idalia tenderly rearranged behind her head.

  “Mother, may I present Lance Wayland of Marwood.”

  She nodded toward the woman who was so like her. “My mother, Lady Emmeline, Countess of Stanton.”

  He’d met few countesses in his time, and even fewer while standing above them in their beds. But Lance did know enough to bow deeply.

  “Is my daughter a virgin still?”

  Idalia made a strangled sound.

  Though surprised at the countess’s directness, he did not hesitate to answer. “She is, my lady.”

  “Mother!”

  “I’d have asked you earlier,” she addressed Idalia, “but I wanted to speak to the man who has stolen my daughter’s heart.”

  Stolen her daughter’s heart? Surely not. They hardly knew each other. And yet . . .

  He had risked everything for a few stolen moments with Idalia. Did that not mean something?

  “Mother, please—”

  “I’ve little time for pleasantries,” she said, pointedly ignoring Idalia, “as you can see. So I will ask directly. Are your intentions honorable, sir?”

  Sir. She could not know that was an accurate moniker. Of sorts. None but his four friends knew Lance had been knighted. Or of his true purpose here.

  And even though she’d used the title solely as a courtesy, the reminder of his deception was an unwanted one.

  Were his intentions honorable? He’d not expected or prepared for such a question.

  “I have never acted dishonorably toward a woman in my lifetime,” he said honestly. “And would not presume to do so now.�
�

  That much was true. Unless one counted it as dishonorable that he’d made this woman come apart in his hands, knowing he intended to sway her father to a cause that would put all of Stanton in danger.

  Which, on second thought, maybe it was dishonorable.

  “If we met in the hall, under different circumstances, I might ask you to leave Stanton Castle,” the countess said, her gaze unwavering. “But we do not. I am dying—”

  “Mother!” Her cheeks had turned a brighter pink than they had the other night.

  “I am dying,” she repeated. “And have married one daughter off to a man she does not love, even though she believes otherwise. But this one”—she never looked away—“will make her own choices. And I will be at peace with them if I can be assured you are worthy of such a treasure.”

  “Mother, please. We shared one kiss. That is to say . . .”

  Lance would remember this moment for the rest of his life.

  He did look away from the countess then, just in time to see Idalia purse her lips together in the most obvious expression of guilt imaginable. From the look of her, she didn’t lie to her mother often—and she certainly wasn’t very good at it. For all her passionate responses to him, Idalia was still an innocent. He would not smile, but damn if he didn’t want to.

  “We are not in love. And are certainly not getting married.” She said it so adamantly Lance felt a pang at her words.

  Of course they were not. Why should her refusal matter to him?

  “I see,” was the countess’s only response to her daughter. “You will come back tomorrow,” she said to him. “Idalia, will you send Marina to me?”

  He caught Idalia’s frown as he bowed once again, the encounter with her mother one of the strangest he’d ever experienced.

  “I am so, so sorry,” Idalia said as soon as they left the room. “I told her nothing except—”

  He cut her off with a kiss.

  Lance was acting reckless, but he needed just a small taste of her sweetness, her caring. In that chamber, she’d thought only of his feelings. Her mother’s wellness.

  Did she ever see to her own well-being?

  He pulled away, wanting the answer to that question.

  “Who cares for you, Idalia?”

  She swallowed. “Cares for me?”

  He stared at her lips, still wet from their kiss.

  “You worry about offending your mother. And me. But what of yourself? Who worries for you?”

  She was utterly perplexed by the question.

  “I do not need anyone to worry for me.”

  He’d expected her to respond as such. It struck him then that they weren’t in a private place. Anyone could come through this passageway at any time. “Is there anywhere more private that we can talk?”

  “I have to find Marina. Meet me at the Small Tower?”

  Lance didn’t even bother arguing with himself about it. “Aye. I will be waiting for you.”

  Lady Idalia of Stanton was a woman worth waiting for but, despite what her mother had just said, was not, nor would ever be, his.

  15

  Idalia pushed her way into the Small Tower but did not ascend the circular steps in front of her. Instead, she leaned against the inside of the door, breathing heavily. She’d fairly run to find her mother’s maid, and then here.

  Was he waiting for her?

  More importantly, what in the heavens had her mother just said to them?

  Lance had reacted so calmly throughout the whole encounter. Indeed, he’d seemed almost amused when she’d stumbled over that small lie she’d told her mother. Idalia had not wanted to be dishonest, but what else could she have said? That he’d done something more wondrous with his fingers than she’d ever thought possible?

  That she ached for him whenever they weren’t together?

  Idalia had even dreamed of him. That morning, Leana had remarked on the fact she’d awoken with a smile on her face. How could she not smile? The way he looked at her, and touched her, made her feel like the most beautiful and desirable woman in the world.

  But he was troubled.

  So much so that Idalia wanted nothing more than to learn the cause. To heal the wounds he so obviously carried with him each day.

  But . . . marriage?

  Was it her mother’s illness that caused her to say such things? She shoved aside the wicked thought that Father Sica might be right. The devil did not possess her mother.

  And yet, she hardly knew the woman they’d spoken to earlier.

  I’m dying.

  It was not true. Idalia refused to believe it. But if her mother thought it to be true, she supposed such a sentiment could change the way a person thought of everything around them.

  Taking a deep breath and climbing the stairs, Idalia opened the door at the top and saw him immediately.

  When he turned, her breath caught. Her entire body felt as if it were a bowl of pudding, and for a long moment she could do naught but stand there looking at him, like a simpleton.

  “I thought you may not come.” His deep, resonant voice vibrated through her very soul.

  “If anyone should be running for Eller’s Green, it is you. After that discussion . . .”

  She trailed off, not knowing what to say.

  He did not move toward her. An awkwardness had settled between them after their audience with her mother, one she would do anything to dispel.

  “I will admit, it was certainly not what I expected.”

  “What did you expect?”

  “To be tossed from Stanton, at best.”

  The thought had occurred to her as well. To save his position and his reputation, she’d been prepared to promise she would never see or speak to him again.

  A promise that would have killed her.

  The thought sent a pang through her chest.

  “I am sorry—”

  One moment Idalia stood there, wishing there was not so much distance between them—the next, she was in his arms.

  “Do not” was all he said as he held her.

  She squeezed him, reveling in the feel of him in her arms, then turned to face the stars and settled back in his embrace, wishing she could stay this way forever.

  Neither said anything for some time.

  “Is your mother . . . is she truly dying?” he asked finally.

  Her answer was instantaneous. “Nay.”

  He was quiet again.

  “Tell me of your mother,” she said finally, wishing to hear of the woman who had made such a man. Would that she could have known her. She squeezed him, as if to encourage him to speak, but he remained silent for a time. When he did finally speak, her heart jumped in her chest.

  “She was so beautiful. Every man in the village whispered about her beauty. And caring, like you.”

  Idalia’s heart hurt for the pain she heard in his voice. She was glad not to see his face. If she did, she might cry—something she did easily—and that wasn’t what he needed from her just now.

  “I don’t speak of her often.”

  “Why?”

  One hand moved to her head, and the simple act of Lance caressing her hair was, as of this moment, her favorite thing in the world.

  “My father . . .”

  His tone hardened. Instinctively, Idalia braced herself for his next words.

  “He was a decent man, at times. His skills as a smith are renowned.”

  His words were heavy with sadness—or was it anger? Idalia could not tell which.

  “But when he drank too much ale . . .”

  His hand stopped moving through her hair. He slung it around her shoulder, linking his hands about her, and Idalia braced for his next words.

  “He became a different person. Mean. Mocking.”

  This was difficult for him. His strained words made that abundantly clear. Wanting, needing, to see his face, she pulled away to look him in the eye. He let her. She encouraged him silently, and he kept going.

  “He hit her. So
many times. And I did nothing.”

  She would not cry.

  “I pretended not to hear her cries. Hid outside at her bidding when he was at his worst. I was a coward.”

  “You were a child,” she countered.

  “I could have told someone, though half the village likely knew.”

  “And they’d have done nothing. She was his wife—”

  “Exactly.”

  Lance had only ever looked at her with kindness, but there was no mistaking the hate in his eyes when he spoke of his father.

  “Did he . . .” She swallowed but forced herself to finish. “Did he kill her?”

  His bitter laugh was a sound Idalia never wanted to hear again.

  “Nay. But he might as well have. He made her life miserable.” He’d been looking above her, off into the distance somewhere, but his eyes lowered to hers. “I was ten and five the night I finally struck back.”

  Idalia did not look away.

  “Still an apprentice, still young, but strong. Nearly as strong as my father.”

  She thought of the muscles in his arms, formed, no doubt, from years of wielding a smith’s hammer, and could only imagine the same was true of his father.

  “I’d resolved not to let him touch my mother ever again. There were stretches of months he did not drink. Occasions when he slept in the forge. But I knew it would happen again, and it did. He came home one night smelling of gut-rot, and I knew the time had come.”

  Idalia shivered, scared. Though she did not know for whom.

  “He’d not expected me to stop him. When I grabbed him from behind, he was stunned at first. I struck him with all of the anger I felt toward him, and despite his size, I knocked him right to the ground.” Lance closed his eyes. “Mother screamed the entire time. Yelled for me to stop, that he would hurt me.” He opened his eyes again. “But he did not. He lay there, holding his jaw. Stunned.”

  She would not cry. “What happened then?”

  He began to stroke her hair again, almost as if he didn’t realize he was doing it. She sighed, waiting, soaking in the gentleness of this big, strong man.

  “I’d imagined the moment for so long, I could hardly believe it had happened the way I planned. But I also knew I could not stay there, could not work with him after that. So I left.”