Beauty and the Blacksmith (Spindle Cove #3.5)(2)

Oh, Lord. The last thing she needed right now was thoughts of bed. Much less this big, solid brick of masculinity sharing it.

“Still don’t know how you managed to smash it like that,” he said.

By slamming it in a drawer. And finishing the deed with a rock.

“I don’t know, either,” she prevaricated. Her heart thumped wildly in her chest.

“I could almost believe someone did it on purpose. I know accidents happen. But they don’t usually happen the same way twice.”

As he fastened the necklace, his fingertips brushed her neck.

Diana sucked in her breath. She wanted to pretend the touch was an accident. As he’d said, accidents happen.

But they didn’t happen the same way twice.

He caressed her neck a second time, his roughened thumb sliding down the soft skin at her nape.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

She couldn’t answer. She couldn’t move, couldn’t think.

“I wonder about it. Why you come so often. Why every metal latch and clasp and rivet you possess seems to need mending of late.” His voice grew deeper, almost dreamy. “I’ve told myself you’re just bored with this village. With this weather, there’s little else to do.”

He circled her, running his finger beneath that chain. Branding her with a necklace of his touch.

“Other times”—she caught a wry note in his voice—“I decide you’ve been sent by the devil to torment me for my sins.”

He came to stand before her, holding that vial that dangled from her necklace. He pulled gently, and she swayed toward him. Just an inch.

“And then sometimes I think maybe . . . just maybe . . . you’re hoping for something to happen. Something like this.”

She swallowed hard, staring straight into the notch above his sternum. That shamelessly sensual crossroads of bone and muscle and sinew and skin.

The heat of him swamped her. She felt . . . It was so very odd, but she felt ticklish. As though every inch of her was exquisitely attuned, anticipating his touch.

Perhaps he was right.

Perhaps she had been wanting this.

He released her necklace. “Well?”

She gathered her courage and looked up at him. Outside of social calls and dinner parties, Diana had little experience with men. But if there was one thing her genteel upbringing had taught her, it was how to read an invitation.

If she gave Mr. Dawes the slightest encouragement . . .

Oh, heavens. He would kiss her. Those strong, sensual lips would be on hers, and his powerful arms would hold her tight, and there would be no taking the moment back. She would leave with a changed understanding of herself and smears of soot on her best blue frock. In the eyes of the world, she’d be soiled.

Dirty.

“I should go.” The words erupted from her throat, like a geyser of panic. “I should go.”

He nodded and stepped back at once. “You should go.”

She hopped down from the stool and reached for her cloak. The cloak didn’t seem as eager to leave as she was. She wrestled with it, cursing the tangled laces.

“I’m not sure the smithy’s the safest place for you, Miss Highwood.” His manner was easy as he returned to the forge and pumped the bellows. “Lots of smoke and steam. Sparks have a tendency to fly.”

“Perhaps you’re right.”

“Next time you have something what needs mending, just send it over with one of the rooming house maids.”

“I’ll do that.” She made a desperate grab for the door, pulling it open. “Good day, Mr. Dawes.”

“Good day, Miss Highwood.”

She made it a respectable distance down the lane before stopping to press her hand to her chest. Closing her eyes, she inhaled a deep, steady breath.

Oh, Lord. What a fool she was.

Damn. Aaron felt like an idiot.

No, no. Idiot was too kind a word. Idiots were innocent of their mistakes. Aaron knew better. He was a coarse, mutton-brained lout.

What the devil had he been thinking? He didn’t know what had made him do it. Only that she’d been wearing that china-blue frock with lacy edges—the one that made him want to carry her into a field of wildflowers, lay her down like a picnic blanket, and feast.

Perhaps it was best this way. She wouldn’t come around to tempt him again—that much was certain.

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.