Beauty and the Blacksmith

chapter 3


The next morning, Diana woke with all sorts of regrets. They were stabbing her straight through the eyes, those regrets. Her pounding head felt like . . .

Like a blacksmith’s anvil.

She groaned, putting a hand to her eyes. She had a hazy memory of coming in through the rooming house door, waving a brief good night to her mother and sister, then stumbling up to her bed. Unfortunately, her memories of throwing herself at Aaron Dawes were all too clear.

Oh, the humiliation. What he must think of her.

She pulled the coverlet up over her head, turning to bury her face in the pillow. A mistake. She couldn’t hide from the memory here. As she pressed her face to the mattress, recollections of last night’s embrace assailed her. His warmth, his solid strength. His honorable treatment of her when she’d cast all her good breeding in the mud at his feet.

Her head throbbed. The rest of her ached with a fierce, hopeless yearning.

“Diana?” Charlotte rapped on the door. “Are you well?”

No. No, I’m not well. I am very poorly in the head. And in the heart. Kindly go away.

“The rain’s let up,” Charlotte said, opening the door a crack. “Mama wants to pay a call at Summerfield. Will you join us?”

Diana was tempted to stay abed and plead headache. She wouldn’t even need to exaggerate. But if there was one thing she was proud of doing last night, it was deciding that she wouldn’t be defined by “delicate health” any longer.

She threw back the coverlet. “I’ll join you.”

She rose from bed, dressed, choked down a bit of tea and toast, and donned her sturdiest shoes. Perhaps if she walked far enough, she would leave this feeling of mortification behind.

The walk to Summerfield did loosen some of the knots in her stomach. And they all enjoyed their brief visit with Sir Lewis Finch, who told them the latest news of his granddaughter. By the time they began their walk home, the sky had lightened noticeably. Diana could almost forget the embarrassment of last night.

Almost.

“How did it go last night?” Charlotte asked.

Diana stumbled over a rock. “What do you mean?”

“Your thimble. Did you find it at the Bull and Blossom?”

The thimble. Diana shook her head. “It wasn’t there.”

“That’s so odd.”

“Not really. It’s just a thimble. Thimbles go missing.”

“But just this morning, Mrs. Nichols was missing her ink bottle, too. It’s a mystery.”

Diana smiled. Charlotte’s imagination always led her to see more excitement than was truly there. “I’m sure it’s a coincidence.”

“It’s a tragedy,” Mama exclaimed, stopping in the lane. “Oh, this cannot be borne.”

“The disappearance of my thimble, a tragedy? I think I can survive it.”

“No, look.” Mama gestured toward the sky, where the thick blanket of clouds had parted to reveal a patch of blue—and within it, the bright, cheery face of the sun. “The sun is out. Oh, this is dreadful.”

“Dreadful?” Charlotte laughed. “It’s our first sunshine in a fortnight. It’s marvelous.”

“It is dreadful. Because your sister left the rooming house with only her cloak and no proper bonnet.” She hurried to Diana’s side. “Ten minutes of this, and she will freckle. Oh, and less than a week before our invitation to Ambervale. What will Lord Drewe think?”

“If he notices—which I doubt he will—he will think I’ve been in the sun.”

“Exactly!” She tugged at the hood of Diana’s cloak, drawing it up as far as it would go. “Keep your head down, Diana. Just look at your feet.”

Diana lifted her head, letting her hood fall back. “But then how will I see where I’m going? I might fall on my face. I should think Lord Drewe would take more notice of bruises than he would freckles.”

“Head down, I say.” Mama yanked the hood up again.

“No.” Diana thrust it back. “Mama, you’re being ridiculous. This is a beautiful morning. I mean to enjoy it.”

She braced herself for another round of Tug-o’-Hood, but Mama didn’t care to play. She was distracted by the sounds of hoofbeats and carriage wheels and turned to peer down the lane.

“There is Mr. Keane with his curricle. He will save you.”

“Save me? I survived years of asthma. I don’t believe freckles are a terminal condition.”

“Head down,” she snapped. As the curricle drew near, she lifted one arm and waved to him with her handkerchief, like a drowning sailor in need of a rope. “Mr. Keane! Oh, Mr. Keane, do help!”

“Please don’t trouble him.”

“He is the vicar. He ought to do a good deed.”

The curricle rolled to a halt in the lane. What with the strong sun and the harsh shadows, it was hard to peer into the covered bench seat—but the driver didn’t seem to be the vicar. This man was rather . . . larger.

“Is there some problem?” he asked in a dark, all-too-familiar baritone.

Oh no. No. It couldn’t be.

What wretched luck. Diana took her mother’s advice. She drew her hood up and stared at her boots.

“Why, Mr. Dawes,” her mother said, her tone wary. “What are you doing with Mr. Keane’s curricle?”

“Mama,” Diana hissed. Good Lord, she made it sound as if he’d stolen the thing.

“And good morning to you, Mrs. Highwood,” Mr. Dawes answered patiently. Out of the corner of her eye, Diana saw him tip his cap. “Miss Charlotte. Miss Highwood.”

She felt his gaze on her. Now it didn’t matter if she stayed out of the sun. A blush this furious would surely stain her cheeks for a month.

“Mr. Keane asked me to mend the axle,” he explained. “I’m out for a short drive to test the repair before I return it. Is something wrong?”

As she listened to her mother carry on about the tragedy of sunshine and the need to keep her daughter’s complexion unmarred for Lord Drewe, Diana squirmed with shame.

“Surely you can drive her back to the rooming house,” Mama said. “I know it’s a liberty, as you are a hired man. But I daresay I can grant permission in Mr. Keane’s stead. It’s what he would do, as a gentleman.”

Mother!

In how many ways could she insult him? Mr. Dawes was not a “hired man.” He was a skilled craftsman and artisan, and everyone in the village—Mr. Keane included—respected him.

Diana had to look up now. “Please don’t let us trouble you, Mr. Dawes. I’m perfectly fine walking.”

“Perfectly fine!” her mother squawked. “You’ll be perfectly crisped.”

She caught his gaze and tried to send an apologetic look. Forgive her. And me.

His expression was impossible to read. “I’d be glad to give Miss Highwood a ride into the village. I’m going there anyway.”

“That is very good of you,” her mother said. “When I see him, I will be sure to speak highly of your service to Mr. Keane. Perhaps there will be a shilling in it for you.”

“Very kind of you, ma’am.”

Mr. Dawes alighted from the curricle, adjusted the folding hood for maximum shade, then offered his hand to help Diana. Despite the awkwardness of the situation, she took a thrill from the feel of his hand dwarfing hers and the easy strength with which he boosted her onto the seat.

When he joined her, she pressed herself all the way to the opposite side.

“We’ll see you back at the Queen’s Ruby,” Mother said. “Don’t fret about me walking. I will be fine. Even at my age.”

“I’m sure you will be,” Diana muttered.

As Mr. Dawes flicked the reins and set the curricle in motion, Diana slunk down in her corner of the seat.

She learned something new as they rattled down the lane.

Awkwardness wasn’t characterized by silence. Oh, no—awkwardness had a symphony all its own. The thump of an erratic heartbeat, contrasting with the steady squelch of hooves on packed mud. The roar of a thousand unspoken words piled up in one’s throat, all clamoring to get loose. The sound of fence posts whooshing past—each one brought them closer to the village, and each one felt like a stinging lash of rebuke. Another opportunity missed.

Frantic emotion built in her chest. She couldn’t stay quiet any longer.

“Mr. Dawes. Please let me apologize. For my mother just now. And for my behavior last night. And yesterday afternoon. I don’t know what—”

He held up a hand, gently shushing her.

“Truly. You must think me the most presumptuous—”

“Nothing of the sort,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road. “I’m just trying to listen for the axle. I think I heard it creak.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” She bit her lip, hard. Stop talking, ninny.

“Have these for a moment.” He passed her the reins, then bent and twisted away from her, looking over the curricle’s side to observe the axle in motion.

Diana stared down at the leather braids in her hands. Then she looked at the trotting horses and the muddy road flying by beneath them.

“Mr. Dawes,” she whispered, hoarse with fear. “Mr. Dawes, I’ve never—”

He held up that hand again, requesting silence. “Just a moment.”

This couldn’t wait a moment.

“Mr. Dawes.”

He straightened and turned to her. “What’s the matter?”

“Kindly take the reins,” she begged. “I don’t know how to drive.”

“You seem to be driving right now.”

“But what if we have to turn? Or slow down? Or stop?” She tightened her grip. “Oh dear. Now they’re going faster.”

He eased closer to her on the seat. His arm pressed against hers. “You’re doing fine. It’s not a busy road, and the horses know their way.” He put his hands over her wrists, shaking lightly. “Just lift the reins a bit and loosen your grip. These are good horses. They’re trained to a soft touch.”

He helped her position the reins, sliding them between her fingers.

“Like this?” she asked, sitting straight.

“That’s just it. You’re doing well.”

His low, gentle voice entranced her and gave her confidence.

He showed her the commands for right and left; how to urge the horses faster and draw them to a halt. The lesson made for welcome distraction. At least they had something to discuss other than the mortifying events of yesterday.

“Every woman should learn to drive,” he said. “I taught my own sisters when they were old enough. I never understood why the Spindle Cove ladies spend all those mornings shooting pistols and muskets, yet never have driving or riding lessons.”

“I suppose the shooting lessons make us feel strong. In control of ourselves and our lives.” At least, that’s what the ladies’ weekly target practice did for Diana.

He shrugged. “I’m not saying it’s bad. But there’s feeling powerful, and then there’s actually taking the reins. They are a great many situations a woman might do well to drive away from. Very few where it’s advisable to shoot her way out.”

He was right, Diana thought. Loading and shooting a pistol might give a lady a rush of exhilaration, but this was true power. The freedom to choose her own direction, and harnessing the power to take her there.

“There, now you know how to drive.” He moved back to his side of the seat. “Where do you want to go?”

Diana pulled on the reins, drawing the horses to a lurching halt in the middle of the empty lane. “I want to stop right here and apologize to you. I know you don’t wish to speak of yesterday, but I cannot be easy until I say this. You were very kind to me, and I can’t . . . I heard the way my mother spoke to you just now, and I need you to know I don’t think of you that way. When I came to the tavern last night, I wasn’t just seeking a moment of rebellion. I . . .”

She’d been staring at her hands all this time, but she forced herself to look up. At him.

His handsome features were a mask of confusion. Oh, she was making a hash of this.

“May I be honest with you?” she asked. “I think that’s the best strategy. I’ll just say everything I’ve been keeping to myself. And when it’s out, it will surely sound ridiculous. We’ll have a good laugh, and that will be the end of things. Can you bear it?”

His wide mouth crooked in a smile. “I can bear far worse.”

“I . . .” Out with it. “I’ve been infatuated with you for quite some time. It’s terrible.”

“Terrible,” he echoed.

“Not that you’re terrible, of course. That ‘s not what I mean. I think you’re remarkable. I’m the terrible one. It all started that night of Finn’s accident. You were so confident and so strong. Just did what needed to be done, and no wavering.”

“That night? Believe me, I was wavering. On the inside, I was wavering.”

“I never would have known it.” She laughed a little. “Of all the places to develop an infatuation. Making eyes at a man over an amputation table. It’s embarrassing, isn’t it?”

“Rather.”

“Hardly a story a woman wants to tell her grandchildren someday.”

“No, I don’t suppose it would be.”

She felt lighter already. “See, I told you this would all sound ridiculous. Oh, and there’s so much more. You already know that I purposely broke things just to have excuses to come by the smithy. When did you start to realize the truth?”

“Just recently.” His mouth tugged in a self-effacing grimace. “I’m not too sharp.”

She waved off his words. “That’s not true. You’re so perceptive. It’s evident in your finer work. I’ve spent hours poring over your jewelry pieces in the All Things shop. I’ve bought five of them.”

“Five?”

“Yes. Five.” She cringed. “I told Sally I was sending them to friends as gifts. A small taste of Spindle Cove, I said. But I never meant to give any of them away. I kept them all for myself. It was so stupid of me, because once I’d said they were gifts, I couldn’t be seen wearing them. And if I kept them in my jewelry box, Charlotte would find them—she’s always going through my things without permission. So I resorted to keeping them in the chest with my trousseau. They’re wrapped up in a tablecloth.”

“You have five of my pieces in your trousseau?”

“Well, only four.”

“Where’s the other one?” he asked.

She shook her head and pressed a hand to her cheek. “Oh, this is where it gets truly mortifying. There was one I couldn’t bear to put away. But I couldn’t gather the courage to wear it, either. So I took it off its chain and sewed little pockets into my frocks. Every morning, I slip it in as I’m dressing, and at night, I tuck it . . .” She buried her face in her hands.

“Where?” He sounded as if he was enjoying this now.

“Under my pillow,” she moaned into her hands, knowing he’d laugh. “As if I’m a girl of fourteen.”

He did laugh, but he did it good-naturedly.

“I admire all your work, but that one is my favorite. From the moment I saw it in Sally’s display case, I knew I had to have it. It just . . .” She’d come this far. No turning back now. “It seemed made for me.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Was it a little silver pendant with a quatrefoil design?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Then you had it right,” he said. “So long as we’re being honest. It was made with you in mind.”

Her heart turned over in her chest. “Oh.”

“I do all my best work with you in mind. I never questioned why you came by the forge because I was just pleased you came. I didn’t want you to stop. And that night with Finn? That’s when it started for me, too.”

They stared at each other. His dark eyes held her rapt.

“I find you terribly handsome,” she blurted out. Because it was the only thing left unsaid.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I would tell you you’re the kind of lovely that’s unfair to roses and sunsets. But I don’t think this honest conversation is working the way you hoped.”

“No. It’s not. We were meant to be laughing, but none of this seems ridiculous. In fact, it feels more serious by the moment.”

To know that her attraction hadn’t been one-sided—that she’d been right about those long, searching looks he’d given her now and then . . . The vindication buoyed her spirits, and a delicious tingle ran from her scalp to her toes. But from there, she didn’t know what happened next.

Evidently, he had some ideas.

He took the reins from her hands and secured them on the dash rail. Then he gathered her in his arms and drew her close.

Her heart stuttered. This was really going to happen.

She’d run from his kiss the first time.

The second time, she’d begged him for it.

This time, she’d learned her lesson. She did nothing but remain absolutely, perfectly still.

And it worked.

His lips touched hers, imparting that unique blend of strength and tenderness she was coming to treasure. To crave.

But all too soon, he lifted his head. “Have you been kissed before?”

“I don’t know whether to say yes or no. Which answer will make you do it again?”

“Oh, I’m going to do it again.” His thumb stroked her cheek. “Just wanted to know how slow to take things.”

“A little faster would be fine.” She’d been waiting twenty-three years, after all.

His answer was a thrilling, sensual growl. “As you like.”

He renewed the kiss with a series of rough presses of his mouth to hers. Warm friction teased her lips apart, and his tongue swept between them.

The invasion was startling. She felt as though the ground had gone to liquid beneath her, and now she was adrift on unfamiliar seas. Far outside the boundaries of her experience.

As if he sensed her uncertainty, his arms flexed tight, drawing her flush with his chest. Her head naturally tilted back. She was vulnerable beneath him now, and he took control, deepening the kiss. His tongue stroked hers. The grain of his whiskers rasped at the edges of her lips. Intriguing and so essentially male. She wanted to touch him, slide her fingertips down the edge of his jaw. But she lost her courage, afraid to make a mistake and bring an end to everything.

She wanted this to last and last.

When he did pull away, he made no effort to hide that he was affected, too. It was all there, in his eyes. The deep wellspring of mutual desire and need they’d barely tapped.

“Mr. Dawes,” she sighed. “What do we do?”

“First, you start calling me Aaron.”

She tested it. “Aaron. What do we do?”

He put space between them. “I suppose this is where I should revise the speech I started last night. Remind you that you’re a gentlewoman and I’m a craftsman, and nothing can come of this. And tell you we should just go back to trading longing glances across the green and never speak of this again. But the thing is, I don’t feel like giving that speech this morning.”

“Oh, good,” she said, relieved. “Because I’m not at all in the mood to hear it.”

“We’re both sober. It’s a fine, clear day. You’re a grown woman, and a clever one. I believe you understand the situation. And I’m going to trust that you know your own mind.”

Her heart swelled. What a lovely, lovely gift. No one else had ever done the same.

He put one hand over hers. “We have something, the two of us. I don’t think we could name it quite yet, much less decide what we’d do to keep it. But if you like, we can spend more time together and puzzle it out.”

“I would like that. Very much.”

Goodness. It was settled, then. She had a proper suitor for the first time in her life—and he was a blacksmith. If her mother learned of this, she would be taken with fits.

She added, “But we should probably be discreet. At least for now.”

Something flashed in his eyes, and she was worried she’d offended him. It wasn’t that she was ashamed, of course. Just careful.

She fingered the vial of tincture hanging around her neck. Old habits were difficult to break.

He reached to untie the reins. “I’d best be getting you back to the rooming house. I did promise your mother you wouldn’t freckle.” He gave her a wry wink. “I hear there may be a shilling in it for me.”

“Wait,” she said.

Before he could set the team in motion, she rose up on the curricle seat, turned, and forced down the collapsible cover so that sunlight splashed them both.

“There.” She removed her cloak and settled beside him, putting her arm through his. “Now we can go.”