Page 45 of The Blacksmith

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.