Page 42 of The Blacksmith

“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.”