Page 57 of The Blacksmith

Chapter 18

Lance cursed himself as he climbed the stairs to the top of the Small Tower. He should be avoiding Idalia, for her sake. He knew he’d been right to encourage an invitation to talk to the earl about the market stalls. It would provide him the opportunity he needed to confirm Stanton’s position on the king.

No doubt, Stanton was unhappy with the king. At least, his men were unhappy with him. Which was likely a reflection of their lord’s views. But he hated to embroil Idalia in his machinations. She was unaware of his real motives and nothing good could come of meeting her in secret. He knew only that he’d hurt her and wanted an opportunity to explain. Not that he could give her a full explanation, of course, but she deserved something.

And yet, while he hadn’t asked to see her for the sake of the order, Lance knew it was time for him to ask a few pointed questions of the lady of Stanton.

He owed it to the order.

So why did all thoughts of them flee his mind the moment he opened that door?

She was as lovely as she’d been earlier, walking beside him at the market. But even though she wore the same gown, her hair still falling around her shoulders, somehow Lady Idalia appeared more regal now. Chin held high, she was every bit the earl’s daughter, a competent young woman who cared for everyone around her.

His mother would have adored her. Though she seemed to have little notion of her own value, Idalia was absolutely perfect in every other way.

“You have no compare,” he blurted out. Not the words he’d meant to say, but they were true nonetheless—and she needed to hear them.

“You must not have met many ladies in your time.”

“Why do you say such things?”

She walked toward him as warily as he’d expect after what he had done.

“If you knew my sister—”

“A lovely woman, I am sure. But still, I say it again, you have no compare.” He put as much meaning into the words as he could, but she still did not appear convinced.

“And yet, you failed to come, failed to meet me.”

“That had nothing to do with you.”

The bitter laugh that escaped her lips was not Idalia. He hated that he was the cause of her pain.

“Listen to me.” He took her hands despite his vow not to touch her. Looking into her eyes, he implored her to understand. “Nothing would please me more than to make you mine.”

And it was true.

“But I am simply a smith.”

“A master smith.”

“But a blacksmith nonetheless. Your mother may have . . . unique views on the matter. But your father would not agree with them, I am sure of it.”

Idalia did not argue that point.

“I didn’t come to you that night because”—he swallowed—“I was scared.”

“I would not imagine a man like you to be afraid of anything.”

Lance was immediately brought back to his childhood home, where he’d lain in bed pretending to sleep. Listening for the telltale shouts that signaled his father had drunk too much ale.

“I have been afraid of plenty.”

Lance circled her palms with his thumbs, willing her to believe his actions were not a reflection on her. Willing her to see herself as he saw her. As perfect.

He knew he shouldn’t tell her how he felt. It wouldn’t do anything other than frustrate both of them, and yet the words flowed from his lips. “Most especially I’m afraid to have fallen in love with a woman who cannot be mine.”

“What did you say?”