Page 21 of The Blacksmith

She looked embarrassed, but why? He’d already admitted he disliked the priest as much as she did, so he doubted this was over missing mass. And something about that look, and the way her eyes lingered on his arms . . .

I should not ask.

“Tell me,” he blurted out, knowing it was foolish to do so.

But she didn’t need to say a word. Her lips parted. The hue of her pink cheeks deepened.

“You did not sleep well.”

She shook her head.

“Nor did I,” he admitted, his eyes still on her. He allowed his meaning to flow into the words. “Lady Idalia.”

“Idalia, if it pleases you.”

Naught would please him more, but he could not. She was the daughter of an earl. Of this earl.

“It would please me very much to have leave to use your given name, but—”

“Then do so.”

He swallowed.

“Lance.”

She was both timid and bold—a mystery he should like to solve. But he could never forget he was here for a purpose. And that purpose was not to anger the earl by becoming too familiar with his daughter.

His young apprentices bounded toward them, wagon in tow. They would be upon them any moment.

“Idalia,” he said, despite knowing he should not, and then he made it much, much worse.

“Can you meet me again this eve?”

He didn’t say where. Or when.

But she knew, and nodded.

She grabbed her skirts and turned from him, meeting the boys midway up the hill. He watched her greet them and eventually disappear.

What the hell did I just do?

Chapter 8

“He is a whoreson,” Idalia’s father muttered under his breath. Their guest had arrived just before supper. She didn’t recognize him, but according to Dawson, he was the son of a border clan chief. As such, he was seated with them at the high table. She’d been forced to distract Tilly from the epithets constantly streaming from her father’s mouth, all spoken just loudly enough for both of his daughters to hear.

She was accustomed to his language, of course. But he reserved the worst of it for the very man their guest now praised—the Scottish king who would only allow Stanton’s wool across the nonexistent border in exchange for what amounted to an expensive bribe.

“I would not disparage the English king here in your hall,” the man was saying, “but his policies do not make it any easier for us to trade either.”

Idalia smiled politely as the young man caught her eye—and then she turned away.

“I do wish Mother were here now.” Tilly pushed the vegetables on her trencher back and forth. “She had a way of containing Father’s language.”

“Has,” Idalia chided gently. “Has a way. Mother will get better.”

Tilly did not look convinced. If only she truly believed her words, Idalia might do a better job of making her sister believe them too.

“She is getting worse.”