“I am.”
She avoided Leana’s gaze. It was a lie and both women knew it. Still, Lance had asked for a meeting—and she’d arranged it with her father.
“I spoke to Mother this morn. She asked that I bring Lance to her for an extended visit.”
“How does she fare today?”
“The same,” she admitted. “I tried to convince her to walk about the chamber, but her stomach pained her too much.”
Her mother thought she was dying, that she would never get well, but Idalia refused to accept it as a possibility. The physician from London was due to arrive any day.
Her mother would get well. She simply must.
“Are you ready?”
She looked down at her pale yellow kirtle, topped with a royal blue surcoat.
Stanton colors.
Her father adored them and never failed to comment when she, or her sisters, wore them. Unlike Roysa and Tilly, Idalia rarely attempted to curry approval, but today, she could use every bit of help she could get.
Leana was certainly right: convincing her father she should marry for love would not be a simple matter. Even the countess, who’d suggested the match, agreed with her on that.
But Idalia was determined. A trait she had, according to her mother, inherited directly from the very man she sought to convince.
First, however, she needed to find Lance. They’d agreed to meet just inside the hall so she could properly present him to her father. Sure enough, that was exactly where she found him, standing just inside the entranceway. Others always appeared so small standing next to the two massive oak doors. But not he. Not Lance.
He was speaking to Dawson when she approached.
“Good day,” she called to them both.
Thankfully, Dawson did not seem to notice the lingering, appreciative look Lance gave her as she came near.
“Good day, my lady,” Dawson said. “If you’ll pardon me, I believe there are visitors I must attend to.”
Idalia had not heard of any visitors but was glad Dawson was assuming the role she normally would have taken voluntarily. She inclined her head toward the back of the hall. Her father waited in the solar chamber adjacent to where she and Lance now stood. Under normal circumstances, no one bothered him in there.
“Good day, Lady Idalia.”
She couldn’t discern his expression. Although his expression was often serious, it looked . . . wary . . . and something else.
“You’re worried?” she asked.
When she’d found Lance earlier in the forge to advise him of the meeting, he’d not said much at all. They’d agreed this would be a formal welcome to Stanton, nothing more. She’d assured him it was not so unusual that such a meeting should occur.
And then? Idalia was not sure. She’d wished to ask Lance as much, but in the back of her mind she’d heard her sisters accusing her of overplanning. Her strengths, they often said, were also her faults, and Idalia tended to agree. For once, she’d decided to leave the arrangements to someone else.
Her father was waiting at the door when they reached the solar.
“Do come inside and sit.”
Lance bowed, which made her internally wince—she’d forgotten to warn him that her father disliked formality—and they all took a seat, Lance and Idalia across from her father. A large oak desk, one handcrafted for her grandfather, separated them.
“My daughter speaks highly of you, Master Lance.”
Lance seemed surprised by her father’s use of his name. But her father never forgot a name. Ever.
“As she does of you, my lord.”
“I would welcome you to Stanton, once again. I do hope the task of replacing Master Roland has not proven too difficult?”
“It has not, my lord. I find the people here quite welcoming. Your daughter included.”
He said it so smoothly Idalia nearly laughed aloud. Welcoming, indeed.
“And how do you find the forge?”
“Well appointed and in need of little.”
If Lance had not conversed with nobility often, as he claimed, it was difficult to discern. Her father would appreciate his firm, unwavering tone. And if her father’s smile were any indication, he was already impressed.
Sitting back in his seat, he continued to scrutinize Lance without even glancing her way. Which was typical, though the dismissal stung no less because of its frequency.
“Well,” he said at last, “if you are in need of anything, you’ve only to ask Dawson.”
Idalia looked down to her hands, which she’d folded in her lap.
“Or Lady Idalia, I presume,” Lance replied, “as she seems to have a firm handle on castle affairs.”
Her head shot up. Would her father take it as a rebuke? It did not seem so, but she would have to warn Lance in the future not to praise her in such a way. She did not want her father to think Lance’s words were a slight to the seneschal whom he so adored.
“As such,” her father responded.
“If I may ask a question, my lord?”
Idalia held her breath. Even if her father approved of Lance, it was near certain he wouldn’t approve of Lance for her. Add in a bad first impression, and her mother’s well wishes would mean little.
“Certainly.”
“My previous lord required that I incorporate one of the crown’s three lions on all armor, and I wondered if my lord asks the same of me?”
What in the heavens?
It was the kind of question she could have answered in a trice. Although she’d heard of such a practice before, Roland had certainly never been required to do such a thing. Why hadn’t Lance asked her or even Dawson?
And why was her father looking at Lance so seriously, as if he were contemplating his answer, which would most certainly be no.
“Did such a request aggrieve you?” her father finally asked.
Lance answered immediately. “It did, my lord. If I may be so bold as to admit such a thing.”
The tone of the meeting had changed. And although she was astute enough to understand as much, Idalia had no idea what had happened. She did, however, plan to find out.
“Then you will be pleased to know I would not require it of you or any smith of Stanton.”
For the first time that afternoon, Lance seemed to relax.
Idalia barely listened to the pleasantries that passed between the men until her father finally remembered she was present.
“I will see to your mother this eve.”
It was her custom to do so, but she’d not argue with her father. Especially in front of a guest.
“Very well,” she said, bowing her head. And then remembered the stalls.
“Father, Master Lance told me of an idea for the market. Something he’s seen before in France that may be of interest.”
Lance explained what he had seen, encouraging her into the conversation. Her father seemed pleased by the idea and promised to give it further thought.
“If that is all?” Her father dismissed them both.
Lance understood and stood, Idalia doing the same as they made their way out of the solar.
“Ahh, my lady.” Dawson swooped down on them the moment they stepped into the hall, like a bird that had been lying in wait for its prey. “We have visitors. If you would assist me in welcoming them?”
She looked at Lance, who didn’t meet her eye. Something had been odd about that meeting, and she would discover what it was. But not, it seemed, at this moment.
“Of course. If you will pardon me, Master Lance?”
Did Lance appear relieved as he nodded in parting? He had defended her in there, and yet, she could not shake the feeling that he had misled her as well.
They were set to meet again at the Small Tower that evening, but Idalia was not patient enough to wait so long. She would see to the visitors and then visit the forge.
She had a question or two for Lance.
20
When Lance opened the door of his private chambers
, he didn’t expect to see Miles on the other side. He’d sent the boys home for the day not long ago and had just returned from a cold wash in the river.
“Good eve, Master Lance.”
Miles stuck out his arms, handing him what looked like a loaf of bread covered in a white cloth.
“Gyngerbrede,” he confirmed. “My ma made it herself. She says it’s to thank you for bein’ so kind to us.”
“Many thanks to her, Miles.” The sweet scent reached him as he took the bread. It was one of his mother’s favorites, a fact he’d relayed to the boys just the day before.
When Daryon had asked about his parents.
As usual, he’d spoken only of his mother. Idalia was one of the only people he’d told about his father. Other than her, only the rest of the other members of the order knew the truth.
“Master Lance?”
The boy looked up at him with a reverence he didn’t deserve. It struck him that it would be hard to leave Stanton—and not just because of the beautiful, stately woman who had his heart.
“Aye?”
“Will you show us how to use the cross-pein hammer to draw out iron? My da says you could likely do anything, even that.”
An easy enough request. “Aye, we will do it on the morrow. Now run along before you miss supper,” he said. Miles had already turned and started running. “And give thanks to your mother for the bread.”
Miles reached his hand up and waved.
A good lad. Both of them were. And their mother had shown him a kindness he didn’t deserve.
Guilt pressed into him, his constant companion of late. He hadn’t been honest with these people, yet they’d invited him in and made him feel a sense of belonging he had not experienced with anyone other than the other men in the order.
Lance was about to close the door when he saw her.
Dressed all in white, she looked like an avenging angel, gliding down the hill to smite him.
“White,” he said as she circled around the forge, “is not the most practical color to wear here.”
Idalia stopped before him. Her hair was unbound, falling in waves down her back, and he longed to reach out and touch it. He held his hands together to stop himself.
“A kitchen maid spilled sauce verte on the other.”
But Idalia had not come to him to speak of spilled sauces.
“I’m surprised you’re not overseeing supper?”
“I’m surprised you did not mention your concern over the engraving to me.”
And there it was.
Though the question had revealed the earl’s leanings, giving him exactly the information he needed, it had come at a price.
“I apologize for making you uncomfortable.”
She waited, but Lance would say no more. Anything else he uttered would be a lie, and he’d lied to her already. As it had been many times before, the truth lay on his tongue, its utterance so close to fruition. But he could not do it. Lance had little to offer the order. No coin or armies of men. Nothing but his loyalty and the success of this mission.
“Would you come in?” he said finally. “I’ve little to offer but”—he lifted his hand—“bread and ale, though I would very much welcome your company.”
She would refuse. Which was for the best, really. If anyone saw her enter his chambers, it would be bad for both of them.
“I do not understand you.”
Most didn’t.
“Do you need to go to the hall?” he pressed.
Idalia shook her head. “Dawson has been left in charge. My father is seeing to my mother and Tilly is supping in her chamber. A new kitten found its way to the keep, and she worried it would be trounced upon in the hall. She refuses to leave him.”
She shrugged, as if to say “sisters.” But Lance was an only child. The closest he had to a sibling was Guy. And the others in the order.
He stepped back, willing her to follow. Knowing she should not. It was foolish of him to ask—and reckless, besides.
“I beg you, come inside. I will not touch you. That is a promise.”
She looked at him curiously then. “You believe that is what I want? For you to stay away from me?”
He took another step back.
Idalia followed.
“When we are together, it can be difficult to”—he took in a deep breath as she walked past him—“converse.”
God forgive him if he didn’t nearly reach for her despite his words. He kept thinking of her hand on him, stroking. Her breasts hugged by the white material.
“Is that a common affliction when two people . . .” She trailed off, looking up at him with side eyes.
“When two people . . . ?” he prompted.
“You vow not to touch me, but look at me so.”
He inclined his hand, gesturing for her to sit at a small table inside. Though the room was sparsely furnished, Roland had decorated it with iron embellishments that gave it a unique quality Lance rather liked. Already it felt like home.
Again, it struck him that it would be difficult to leave this place.
He placed the bread between them and poured two mugs of ale. He sat opposite her, thinking how odd it was she fit so well at the head table in a hall fit for a king but also here, at this modest smith’s table, with him. He truly knew no other lady like her.
Already, he knew he’d never meet her equal.
“What were your intentions for the meeting with my father?”
Lance nearly spat out the ale he’d just swallowed. Somehow, he managed to hold it down.
“To make his acquaintance, as we discussed.”
“For what purpose?”
It was a fair question, of course, and one he’d expected. So why had he invited her inside?
He couldn’t help himself around Idalia. Being with her stole his reason and common sense. It put his feelings in the forefront, something unusual for him.
Not ready to answer her truthfully, and unwilling to lie to her, he instead tried to explain his dilemma. “When my mother died,” he said softly, “I blamed myself for not being there, but it was also her wish for me to leave.” He took a swig of ale. “It was the most difficult decision I’d ever made. If I had stayed, I would have killed him eventually.”
It was not easy to admit, but Lance firmly believed it to be true.
“Worse,” he added, “I’d have felt no remorse.”
“You would have.”
He shook his head. “One time, he tossed her onto the ground and put his foot to her throat. I’d come to the door, intending to stop him. Instead, I stood there, hands shaking, watching as she tried unsuccessfully to speak. When I finally took a step toward them, my father stopped me with one glance.”
Another swig.
“I hated him for the way he treated my mother, but I also hated that he rendered me powerless. Or so I thought at the time.”
Lance had not meant to go into such detail, but he found he wanted to open himself to her. To show him the man he was, faults and all. And he wanted to tell her about the order too. He’d wanted that for some time. His vow had stopped him—as had the realization that doing so would endanger not just him and his mission but also Guy, Terric, and Conrad. And yet . . . perhaps there was a way to gauge her receptiveness.
“Tell me a story,” he said, looking into her eyes. “I asked your father about the king’s inscription. What do you think of it. Of him?”
“Of the king?” she asked, surprise in her gaze.
“Aye.”
Lance opened the cloth and nodded to the freshly baked bread. He tore off a piece, and Idalia did the same.
“I know little of him, though I’ve heard stories of his father, of course.”
“Whom your own father served?”
“Aye. But I know little of Prince John . . .” She took a bite of the bread. “Other than that he’s our king, of course.”
Lance sighed.
“Aye, he is.”
Willing her to say more, to give an
y indication she might be in agreement with their cause, Lance held his breath.
“My father, as you saw, does not allow for me to have an opinion on such matters.”
A notion shared by most men in his position. But Lance wanted her to have an opinion. More desperately than he wanted anything in the world.
“But you have one anyway?”
Idalia opened her mouth to speak, and then closed it.
“Nay. I do not.”
Which meant he could not risk sharing the order’s secrets.
And if she’d said aye? That she hated King John and wished he could be brought to heel? What then? Would you have told her?
Lance was afraid of his answer.
21
Lance’s hand ran up her leg, ever so slowly.
His touch trailed a path of fire across her skin. Closing her eyes, Idalia concentrated on the roughness of his blacksmith’s hand grazing her, even though his touch was soft. Warm. And suddenly, he was there.
Urging her thighs to open wider, his fingers then taunted her entrance. Any moment . . . ah, yes. It felt just like that first time, but Idalia wanted more. Much more.
“More,” she murmured.
What a glorious, wicked feeling.
“More.”
Her eyes flew open. That word hadn’t been spoken by her but by her maid, Leana. Nay, she hadn’t said “more” but “morn.”
“Good morn, my sleepy lady,” Leana said softly.
It was dark, certainly not morning yet. She’d been dreaming, fantasizing about what she wished had happened last eve.
“Leana?” she asked into the dark. “Whatever are you about?”
“He’s here . . .”
Given the direction of her thoughts, Idalia could only think of one person that could be about. She sat up so quickly, Leana took a step back from the bed.
“Lance?”
Leana’s nose scrunched up, making Idalia realize her mistake. Not Lance. Of course not.
“Who’s here?”
It was too early in the morn for riddles.
“The physician.”
“The physician? At this time of day?” She swung her legs over the side of the bed at once, fully awake now. “Did he travel all night?”
The Blacksmith: Order of the Broken Blade Page 12