Beauty and the Blacksmith (Spindle Cove #3.5)(17)

He smiled when he saw them. “That’s nice. Those don’t get used often.”

As they sat down to eat, she felt like she’d finally done something right.

“I’ve been wondering.” He jabbed at his food, gathering a man-sized forkful of eggs. “So you’re named Diana, for the Roman goddess of hunting.”

“And virginity.” Her lips quirked.

“Right.” He wolfed down another bite of eggs. “And then your next sister is Minerva.”

“Roman goddess of knowledge.”

“So where does ‘Charlotte ’come in? Shouldn’t she be a goddess, too?”

“She was meant to be. Those classical names were all the fashion in my mother’s day, and you know my mother is always concerned with the latest fashion.” She pushed the eggs around her plate. “She had the idea to name all her daughters after deities. I think Charlotte was supposed to be Venus. No, no. Vesta.”

He choked on his food. “Either is cruel.”

“I know, I know. My father’s name was Charles, and they’d been waiting to name a son for him. But he fell ill while my mother was pregnant the third time. I think my mother knew there wouldn’t be a fourth child, or any son at all. So that’s how Charlotte was named Charlotte and spared the cruelty of Vesta.”

He put down his fork. “I’m sure she’d rather have the cruel name if it meant having her father. I shouldn’t have joked.”

“Don’t be sorry. Nearly everything my mother does is ripe for ridicule. But occasionally she does mean well.”

They finished their simple meal all too quickly.

“Look at that,” he said. “The sun’s come out. Just in time to disappear again.”

“I really ought to be going back to the Queen’s Ruby. If I’m not there when dinner’s called, they’ll be worried.”

He walked her outside and they stood there, side by side, watching the sun sink toward the horizon. A fiery red ball, painting the clouds with vibrant shades of pink and orange.

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

“My father used to say, Christ might be a carpenter, but the Heavenly Father is a blacksmith. He melts the sun down every night and forges it again the next morning.”

Diana smiled. “What a lovely thought.”

“No, it’s rubbish. At least that’s what I decided after he died. If a good man slumps over his anvil at the age of two-and-forty, his Creator is no kind of craftsman. I inherited his forge, not his faith.” His chest rose and fell in a thoughtful sigh. “But then, every once in a while, I see something so finely made, so exquisitely wrought”—he turned to her—“I can’t help but wonder. Maybe he was right.”

He brushed a light touch down her cheek. “Only a divine hand could make something this lovely. Christ, you’re perfect.”

She laughed a little. Partly because she was amused by his blend of reverent wonder and shameless blasphemy. And partly because it made her uncomfortable.

“I’m not perfect,” she said. “Not inside, not out.”

“You’re a terrible cook. That I’ll grant you. You can’t hold your liquor, either. And you have questionable taste in men. So no, you’re not perfect.” His voice sank to a husky whisper, and his gaze dropped to her mouth. “But you’re close. Close enough to restore a man’s faith in miracles.”

Her heart fluttered as he leaned in for a kiss.

“Dawes!” The call came from around the other side of the smithy. “Dawes, are you here?”

Diana jumped back, worried they’d been seen. And then she worried she’d offended Aaron with her swift recoil. Again.

“It’s fine,” he murmured.

She didn’t know which of her concerns he meant to allay.

For his part, he didn’t show any unease. He walked out around the smithy and greeted the man. Evidently a horse needed shoeing.

She heard Aaron speak to him. “Walk him around, and I’ll be right along. Just have to fetch something from the house for Miss Highwood.”

Diana patted her hands down her front. Gloves, cloak, reticule. She had everything she’d come with, but she followed him anyway.

“What was it you needed to give me?”

“This.”

He lashed an arm about her waist, pressing her up against the wall and claiming her mouth in a passionate kiss. No time for preliminaries today. He took what he wanted, thrusting his tongue deep and putting his hands in places that were just this side of scandalous. The light boning of her corset pressed into her torso—the one thing holding her together, while the rest of her seemed to dissolve.

“Right,” she breathed a few moments later. “I’m glad you didn’t let me leave without that.”

He trailed kisses toward her ear. His whiskered jaw scraped deliciously against her cheek. “I’m taking my work to Hastings tomorrow,” he murmured. “Invent some reason you need to go along. Shopping. Someone to visit. Anything.”

“I . . . I could do that. So long as Charlotte comes with us.”

“Good.” After one last kiss to her lips, he pulled away. “I’ll come for you at the rooming house, first light.”

He left her there, slumped breathless against the wall. Her head whirled, and God only knew where her knees had disappeared to.