Too much of the day remained, and he was too restless for leisure. Lacking an urgent project, he pulled out some thin iron stock and decided to bang out nails. A smith could never have too many nails.
Again and again, he heated the rod to a glowing yellow, braced it on his anvil, and pounded one end to a tapered point. With an ease born of years of practice, he severed the length in one blow, crushed the flat end to a blunt button, and plunged the finished nail in a waiting bucket of water.
Then he began again.
Several hours of mindless, sweaty pounding later, he had a pile of nails large enough to rebuild the village should a mammoth wave wash it all out to sea. And he still hadn’t driven the feel of her skin from his mind.
So soft. So warm. Scented with dusting powder and her natural sweetness.
Damn his eyes. Damn all his senses.
Aaron banked the fire in the forge. He put all his tools away, washed at the pump, and saddled his mare for a ride into the village. He wasn’t usually a hard-drinking man, but tonight he needed a pint or three.
After tethering his horse on the village green, he made his way through the familiar red-painted door of the Bull and Blossom. He hunkered down on a stool in the nearly empty tavern, stacking his fists on the bar.
“Be right with you, Mr. Dawes,” the serving girl sang out to him from the kitchen.
“Take your time,” he answered.
He had all night. No one was waiting for him. No one.
He lowered his head and banged his brow against the anvil of his stacked fists. Coarse. Mutton-brained. Lout.
“Dawes, you need a woman.”
Aaron’s head whipped up. “What?”
Fosbury, the tavern keeper, plunked a tankard of ale on the counter. “I hate to say it. Unhappy bachelors are better for my profits. But you need a woman.”
“Tonight, a woman is not what I need.” He took a long draught of ale.
“She came around the forge today, didn’t she?”
Aaron lifted the tankard for another sip. “Who did?”
“Miss Highwood.”
Aaron choked on his ale.
“It’s no secret.” Fosbury wiped down the counter. “Ever since she showed up in this village, you’ve had eyes for her. Not surprising. You’re a man in your prime, and she’s the prettiest thing to grace Spindle Cove in some time.”
Aaron scrubbed his face with both hands. Curse him, Fosbury had too many things right.
From the first sight of her, he’d been utterly smitten. He had a weakness for finely wrought things, and by God, Diana Highwood was just so . . . perfect. In any other village, men might sit on these barstools and debate which woman deserved the honor of most comely in town. In this tavern, that debate would begin and end over a single sip of ale. Diana Highwood took the honors, without question. She had the face of an angel. Delicate and beautiful.
But though her fair looks might have caught his eye, other qualities had snared his heart.
It had all started the night they’d spent struggling to save Finn Bright’s life. The youth had lost his foot in an explosion, and he’d been brought to the forge for surgery. Miss Highwood wasn’t a healer or a nurse, but she’d insisted on staying to help. Bringing water, mopping blood, dabbing the sweat of delirium from Finn’s brow.
That was the night Aaron had learned the truth of Diana Highwood. That her delicacy was only skin deep—but the beauty went all the way through.
The longer she lived in this village, the more he found in her to admire. She wasn’t only beautiful; she was brave as well. Then determined, intelligent, charitable. By now, she was some sort of paragon in his mind, and Aaron worried that long after she left, he’d be comparing every woman he ever met to her.
And they’d all fall short.
He stretched his hand, regarding it in the dim light. The pad of his thumb still burned where he’d brushed a lock of hair from her neck. It felt singed, cinder-kissed. He pressed it against the cool tankard, but it still throbbed, hot and achy.
Damn, he was hot and achy everywhere. He’d let this attraction get away from him, and now she was deep under his skin. In his blood, it seemed.
“She’s not for you,” Fosbury said.
“I know it. I know it well.” And if he’d been harboring any other thoughts, her frantic escape today would have driven them out of his head.
“She’s not the only woman in this village.”
“I know that, too. It’s just . . . so long as she’s living here, I can’t seem to take an interest in anyone else.”
Fosbury leaned close over the counter and lowered his voice. “The answer could be right under your nose. You don’t have to look far.”
The tavern keeper tilted his head in the direction of the serving girl, who’d emerged from the kitchen with a rag to wipe the tables clean. She cast a friendly smile in Aaron’s direction, and he returned the greeting with a nod.
When she was out of earshot, Aaron muttered, “You want me to court Pauline Simms?”