Page 11 of The Blacksmith

Had he not participated in the festivities, Lance would likely have found his position here even more tenuous than it was already.

I can help you. It’s what I do.

He could not take his eyes off her, despite knowing he should. It had become clear to him, both in their brief interactions and what he’d heard over the last few days, that she was every bit the lady of the castle. She’d assumed her mother’s responsibilities with an elegance and ease everyone admired.

When she’d touched his arm that day, Lance had realized his attraction to her was no simple problem. If her father suspected the new smith woke in the night to visions of his daughter, a very proper noble lady, lying beneath him, more than his position at Stanton would be at stake.

With that thought in mind, he tore his gaze from her to focus on the father.

Lance had first seen the earl at the Tournament of the North many years earlier. The earl no longer participated, but, like many of the older nobles, he saw the tournament as an opportunity to strengthen old alliances and forge new ones.

Lance smiled at the thought. It had certainly done that for him. For the order.

“A right old bastard,” Conrad had called him, though none at Stanton seemed to hold his friend’s same opinion. Indeed, he was as beloved as the old smith. But since Conrad was predisposed to dislike the earl, owing to his own father’s feud with Lord Stanton, Lance would have to assess the man solely on his own merit.

He was next.

A bright blue banner with a single gold lion in its center covered the wall behind the earl’s family. Lance shook off the similarity to John’s coat of arms, knowing both symbols had been created long before either man was born.

Even so, the similarity, especially coupled with the fact that the king’s men had recently paid a visit to Stanton, was disconcerting.

“Master Lance Wayland, the new smith,” the tall, older seneschal announced.

Avoiding Idalia’s gaze, Lance instead looked directly into the eyes of the Earl of Stanton. Neither of them smiled. He bowed and awaited instruction.

“Wayland?” Stanton’s tone was deep and strong. An earl’s voice. “You’ve much to live up to, then,” he said, referring to his name.

“And will do so, my lord.”

A bold claim, to match the skill of a mythological smith said to have forged more than seven hundred rings for his king.

But also a fine introduction for the unusual piece he’d brought with him.

“I arrived less than a fortnight ago but am pleased to present this piece to my lord.”

He handed the bracelet to the seneschal, still watching the earl—which meant he knew the exact moment the earl realized it was not, in fact, for him.

“A gift for a woman worthy of it.”

He could see people on either side of him straining to get a look at the piece. The chatter began almost immediately, as he’d expected it would.

If Lance had learned anything in his years of service to fine lords, it was that a nobleman such as Stanton needed no gifts. Nor was he as worthy to receive them as the woman who’d borne his children.

Or, in this case, the child who had grown into a woman herself.

He let the earl incorrectly assume he’d made the iron bracelet, a delicate piece of twisted metal that very few could achieve, as an offering for the countess.

You play with fire.

Lance would have smiled were he ever inclined to do so. Aye, it had been a bold move—a risky one too. But so was their plan.

“You forged this here?”

The earl turned the bracelet around in his hands.

“I did, my lord.”

When he looked up, it was with the new respect Lance needed to earn.