Beauty and the Blacksmith

chapter 8


Aaron had never been more reluctant to interrupt a lady, but in this instance, he had no choice.

He slowed the horses to a walk and explained, “There’s someone in the road ahead. Stay calm, and let me do the talking.”

To the side of the road, a donkey cart appeared to have lost its wheel. The driver of the cart stood in the center of the lane, wearing a patched coat and waving his hat in a plea for assistance.

“Does he need help?” Diana whispered.

“He might be looking for help.” Or he might be looking for trouble.

Aaron stopped a fair distance from the cart. He reached under the driver’s box and retrieved the pistol he kept there. He’d loaded the weapon before setting off from Hastings, and now he was glad of it. This man looked honest enough at a glance—but it never hurt to be cautious.

Patched Coat jammed his hat back on his head and approached their wagon. “Good afternoon, sir. My cartwheel’s gone off its axle, and I can’t repair it on my own. As you can see, the missus is in a delicate state.”

He nodded toward the cart, and behind it Aaron could make out the shadowy form of a woman great with child.

“Can I ask for a moment’s assistance, sir? With the two of us, we should have it mended in a trice.”

Aaron hesitated. There was a canny glint in the man’s eyes and an oily quality in his smile. He didn’t like this.

But Diana dug her elbow into his ribs. “She’s pregnant. Night will fall before long. We have to help them.”

That settled matters. Aaron was obligated now. He couldn’t look like a callous, unsympathetic monster in front of the woman who had, just two minutes ago, danced on the verge of professing to love him.

“I’ll be right there,” he told the man, and he directed the horses as they pulled the wagon aside.

“You stay here,” he told Diana in a firm, low voice. He put the pistol in her lap and the reins in her hands. “Chances are, I’ll be back in two minutes. But if anything untoward happens, you drive away. If I call to you to drive, you drive away. Do you understand? If there’s trouble, I can handle myself. But I can’t handle myself and protect you and Charlotte.”

She nodded. “I understand.”

Aaron jumped down from the wagon, and his boots landed in the mud with a squelch. He rued wearing his finest coat now, having stupidly donned it just to impress Diana. The later the hour, the greater the dangers of highway travel grew. Any appearance of riches could put her at risk.

“I do appreciate your help,” Patched Coat said, walking him over to the disabled cart. “This will take no time at all. Big fellow like you? You can lift, and I’ll replace the wheel.”

Aaron ducked and took a quick peek under the cart. Though the wheel was off the axle, he saw nothing broken or damaged. In fact, the dried mud on the wheel rims suggested this cart hadn’t moved in several hours.

“You’ll want to remove your coat,” the man said. “My missus would be glad to hold it for you.”

Of course she would. And she’d be glad to strip the contents from every pocket while she was at it.

Aaron saw exactly what was happening now. This couple had probably been sitting by the road all afternoon, taking that cartwheel off and then flagging down passersby for assistance in “repairing” it. While the unsuspecting travelers performed a good deed, the “missus” would relieve them of their coin.

At least these were petty swindlers, not violent highwaymen. Aaron could get out of this easily enough.

He played along to a point, dutifully lifting the cart so that Patched Coat could fit the wheel back on the axle. Just as he’d probably done four times already today.

Aaron tipped his hat to Mrs. Patched Coat—whose pregnant belly looked a great deal lumpier than any he’d ever seen—and took his leave. “Best of luck to you both.”

Find some other unsuspecting fool to gull.

Damn it, the bastard followed him. “Say, I wonder if you could spare a blanket or—”

Aaron stopped in his paces and wheeled on him. “Not another step.”

“Why, I didn’t mean any—”

Aaron lowered his voice to a threat and loomed over the man. “You will not come one step nearer my wagon. I’ve helped you with your cart. If you know what’s good for you, turn around and walk back.”

“Aaron?” Diana called from the wagon. “Is everything all right?”

He lifted his eyebrows at Patched Coat. You tell me. Are you going to be sensible and turn around, slink back to your donkey cart? Or is this going to get ugly?

It got ugly. The man pulled a knife.

Aaron took a quick step back, putting himself out of reach.

“That’s a fine lady you have there,” the man said, gesturing with the gleaming point of his blade. “I’d imagine you work to keep her happy. Surely there’s something in your wagon my missus would enjoy.”

Without turning his gaze, Aaron lifted his voice. “Diana, drive on. Now.”

“I can’t,” she replied. “I’m not going to leave you here.”

“Drive. Now.”

When several seconds passed and Diana failed to obey his command, a smile spread across Patched Coat’s face. He swiveled the blade back and forth, taunting. “I think she likes me.”

Aaron swung on instinct, wanting to knock that smile straight off the bastard’s face and grind his nose into the gravel. His punch connected—but so did Patched Coat’s blade, slashing through the wool of Aaron’s coat sleeve.

They reeled apart from each other and prepared to clash again.

On some level, Aaron registered the fact that he’d been cut. But his mind took the pain and stashed it away for later. He could weather far worse—and he would. He was the human equivalent of an oak tree. If this bastard wanted to bring him down with that puny blade, he’d have to hack at Aaron all night long.

“Diana,” he said, keeping his eyes on that glittering, twisting blade. “For the last time, go.”

Patched Coat began to chuckle. “See now, my missus always listens to me.” He lifted his voice and called to his wife. “Search the wagon while I hold him here.”

A sound stopped them all cold.

The click of a pistol being cocked.

“I don’t think so.” Diana’s voice, as cool and calm as he’d ever heard it. “Step away from him,” she told Patched Coat. “Or I will shoot.”

Aaron cringed. Damn it all. Why had she refused to drive away? This couldn’t end well. If she lost her nerve, she could lose her life. And if she did shoot . . . He knew Diana. Taking a life would weigh heavy on her, even if the act was justified.

“Step away from him now,” she repeated, “or I will shoot.”

She didn’t give a third warning.

Bang.

As the smoke cleared, Patched Coat let out a howl of pain, clutching his right hand in his left. The hand didn’t appear to be bleeding, but the knife was gone.

Good Lord. Aaron realized what had happened. She’d shot the thing clean out of his hand. And the force of the weapon ripping free must have hurt—perhaps broken some of his fingers or his wrist.

Good.

“Jesus,” the man whimpered, doubling over and nursing his wounded hand. “That sodding bitch.”

Aaron had spent a lifetime staring into red-hot flames. And in that moment, he saw shades of red he’d never dreamed existed. He whipped a back-handed blow across the man’s face. Then he grabbed that patched overcoat by the lapels and held the despicable knave close.

“I will rip out your tongue,” he growled, “and feed it back to you.”

He drove his knee into the blackguard’s gut.

He wanted to follow with a crushing punch to the jaw. Then a kick to the ribs. He could have pummeled the bastard into the mud and left him for the carrion birds.

But Diana’s voice called to him, dragging him back from the edge of further violence. “Aaron, please. Please, you’re bleeding. Let’s just go.”

Diana knew she’d look back on this half hour and wonder how she’d held herself together. But what mattered now was that she did. Her body and emotions went numb. Some stronger force in her had taken over the moment she’d raised that pistol. All those years of staying calm paid their dividends today. She didn’t fret, didn’t cry. Her breathing never faltered. She simply did what needed to be done.

She drove the horses a few miles down the road, until they reached a safe place to draw the wagon aside. If she waited any longer, they’d lose all daylight.

She helped Aaron out of his coat and ripped his sleeve apart to expose his wound. Unable to see it well, she took water from their drinking supply and washed the blood away.

A narrow, clean cut, some two inches long. Unless it festered, it wasn’t a life-threatening wound—the wool of his coat had served as weak armor—but it was significantly more than a scratch.

“It will need to be stitched,” she said dispassionately.

She washed it again, making sure no fibers from his shirt and coat were caught in the wound. Then she rummaged through the goods they’d purchased at the draper’s until she found a needle and strong thread.

She was halfway through her third stitch when she thought she felt a drop of rain land on her head. Looking up, she realized it wasn’t rain at all but a drop of Aaron’s sweat. The poor man. He was shaking, slick with cold perspiration. And here she hadn’t offered him anything to help with the pain—not even a scrap of leather to bite down on.

“Go on,” he said through gritted teeth. “Finish it.”

After three more stitches, she was able to tie the knot off with her teeth. She wrapped a length of white, gauzy fabric about his arm.

“It’s a fortunate thing we came from the draper’s today and not the millinery,” she said dryly.

He stared down at the makeshift bandage. “I’m sorry. This was meant for your costume.”

“Never mind the silly play. There’s plenty of surplus, anyhow. I’m just glad I chose to buy needle and thread today, too.”

Now that the bandaging was finished, he mopped his face and composed himself. Then asked the question she’d been dreading.

“Why’d you do that? I told you to drive. You were supposed to drive away. Like you promised me.”

“I know. But . . .”

“But what?” Oh, he was angry now. His voice shook with emotion, and his hands clenched in iron grips. “You put your life at risk, and Charlotte’s, too.”

“Aaron, I just couldn’t leave you. It was all my fault you stopped to help them. I couldn’t simply drive away.”

“It’s a damned lucky thing you’re such a good shot. That was a risky trick, aiming for that knife. If you’d missed . . .”

“I did miss.” And now the emotion came. Her eyes teared up, and she began to tremble. “I did miss, curse you. My hand was unsteady, and I wasn’t braced for the recoil. I wasn’t aiming for the stupid knife. I was aiming for him.”

He touched her face. “Oh, love.”

She made an impatient swipe at her eyes. “And just think—the other day I was debating whether I could kill an eel to keep you. Tonight, when I saw that man lunge with his knife? There was no hesitation. I would have done anything, Aaron. Anything but leave you there alone.”

He was silent for a moment. Then he seized her by the arms. His grip was tight, and his voice was all rough edges.

“I need to know,” he said. “I need to know, right now, if you’re mine. I’ve been patient for years, and if need be, I can wait years more. I’ll do anything in my power to win you, to keep you. But I need to know, this moment, if you’ll be mine in the end.” His hands moved to bracket her face, uncomfortably tight. His gaze burned into hers. “Tell me.”

With every wild beat, her heart thumped against his pendant.

If she was looking for answers, she didn’t need to search any further than that.

“Yes,” she breathed. “Y—”

Before she could say it twice, his lips were on hers.

And then his hands were everywhere. He thrust them under her cloak, making contact with her shivering body. He cupped her breasts through her frock, slid his hands downward to explore her hips and thighs. The bold possession of his touch stirred her blood. There was nothing of finesse or seduction in his touch. Only claiming. Raw, primal need.

As he ran his tongue along her neck and caught her earlobe in his teeth, he swept one hand down her leg and tossed up the edge of her skirts.

She was visited again by that dizzy, arousing thought from the time before she knew anything of him. From before any of this was possible.

His wrist is as big as my ankle.

Indeed, his fingers encircled her stockinged ankle easily, and she could visualize the corded tendons of his forearm flexing as he stroked higher, higher. Up to her knee, and higher still.

Between her legs, her pulse beat as a sweet, hollow ache.

“Diana,” he groaned. “I want to be in you. Deep in the heart of you.”

This was madness. It could not happen. Not here, not now. But she wanted it, too, and the all-consuming nature of her desire was a revelation. What a joy to want. To want so fiercely, with all her being, without moderation or reserve.

She was new to this, and the sort of coarse, thrilling words he whispered did not come easily to her lips.

“Yes.” At least she could manage that much. “Yes, yes.”

He slid his hand higher, over her garter and up. His touch was a brand against her bare, shivering thigh.

She clutched his neck, urging him further. “Yes.”

Until Charlotte moaned and stirred in the wagon bed, and they jolted apart.

Her whole body mourned the loss. Her nipples, tight and achy, strained toward him.

“I’d forgotten her.” She clapped a hand to her brow.

Aaron chuckled between ragged breaths. “I can’t believe she slept through everything.”

“She’s always been that way. Slept like a stone, ever since she was a baby. I’ll be hard-pressed to make her believe any of this tomorrow.”

“Then don’t try. I think you’d do better to keep it between us.”

“But Aaron . . .”

She didn’t want to tell Charlotte about the swindler or the fight, but they wouldn’t be able to hide their relationship much longer.

“Wait until Thursday,” he said. “I want to talk with Lord Payne before we make any plans. I’ve had my differences with the man, and I didn’t care for the way he behaved when he eloped with your sister . . . but I’m determined to do better myself. He’s your brother-in-law and the man of the family. I don’t need his permission, but I want to speak with him about this—about us—and hear what he has to say. All right?”

She nodded. “All right.”

He pressed his brow to hers and caressed her lips with a tender kiss. “There’s my girl.”

As they kissed, her muzzy thoughts swarmed in two opposite directions, one sublime and one utterly mundane.

The sublime: She was his girl. His girl. His girl.

The mundane: Now she really had to practice that ridiculous play.