Beauty and the Blacksmith (Spindle Cove #3.5)(34)

Made her tense and grip tight.

And then at long, merciful last—made her shudder and keen in sweet release.

Thank God.

When she’d recovered from her crisis, he gathered her tight in his arms. Then he stood, lifting her off the anvil entirely and settling her weight against his chest.

“Hold tight,” he grunted. “Hold tight to me.”

She obeyed, lashing her arms around his neck and legs about his waist.

She wanted a tupping from a coarse, common brute? That’s what she’d get. Ten years at this forge had changed him, raised him from a youth to a man. He’d learned patience, attention to detail, restraint—everything he needed to be slow and steady for her pleasure.

But it had also made him strong as an ox. And now it was his turn.

Bracing his feet shoulder-width apart, he tensed his thighs until they were solid as tree trunks. He used every bit of the hard-earned strength in his arms and shoulders, sliding her up and down his length. Using her shamelessly, clutching her bottom with his sooty hands and working her hard.

It wasn’t a feat he could have kept up all night, but that didn’t matter. His lust had reached such a desperate pitch that a minute or two was all it would take.

If that.

He wanted to keep his eyes open. This was his dream, his fantasy come to life. She was in his arms, all lacy and perfect and dirty and wet. He meant to watch her, keep his gaze on her flushed, glistening cle**age as he came.

But when the pleasure ripped through him, his eyes squeezed shut of their own accord. The fierce jolts of ecstasy sent him someplace dark, and then someplace bright . . .

And then somewhere utterly blank.

Her sweet embrace brought him back. That, and the relentless drumming of the rain.

Somehow he managed to carry her to the table and set her down on the planked surface. He pulled up his trousers and slumped next to her, weak all over.

No more work was getting done on that gate today.

“Oh, Aaron. I’m in such trouble.”

Shaking off the postcoital lethargy, he turned and met her gaze. “If you don’t . . . I . . .”

“No,” she jumped to assure him. “I didn’t mean that way. I have no regrets about today. Or last night. None at all.”

He exhaled with relief. “Whatever the problem, I’ll mend it. That’s what I do. I mend things.”

“This isn’t as simple as a broken latch.”

“Whatever it is, whatever it takes, I will mend it. If you don’t know it by now . . .” He drew a sooty line down her cheek. “Diana, I love you more than my life.”

She bit her lip. “That’s just it. My life’s at stake. I may be charged with a felony.”

CHAPTER 12

Diana waited, breathless, for his reaction.

After long, tense moments, he finally gave her one.

He laughed.

She only wished this were a laughing matter. “It’s not a joke, I’m afraid. I’m under quite serious suspicion.”

“Of what?”

She sat tall on the table, letting her legs dangle over the edge. “When I came down from my chamber this morning, all the ladies were in the dining room. They were whispering about me among themselves. I thought they must have found out about us, about last night. But that wasn’t it. Mrs. Nichols accused me of something entirely different. They think I’ve been stealing.”

“Stealing?” He frowned, all amusement gone from his eyes. “You?”

“There’s been a rash of small things gone missing from the rooming house.”

He nodded. “Charlotte told me about that.”

“She did? When?”

He waved off the question. “Not important now. Go on.”

As she spoke, she tugged at her soiled bodice, pulling it straight. “Last night, while all the ladies were gone to Ambervale, several more items disappeared. This time, some were valuable. Miss Price is missing a gold brooch, and a guinea was stolen from Mrs. Nichols’s own desk. And since I was the only lady who stayed home . . .”

“You couldn’t have been the only one there. What about the maids?”

She shook her head. “Only Matilda was there, and she slept in the same room as Mrs. Nichols. If she’d stirred, the landlady would have noticed. In their eyes, I’m the only one who could have taken the things.”

“But you didn’t.”

“Of course I didn’t,” she said. “I’ve never stolen in my life. It’s clear no one wants to believe it was me, but it seems the only logical explanation. They think I’ve developed a compulsion of some kind. Some sort of illness that drives me to steal.”

She exhaled heavily and wove her hands into a tight lattice of interlaced fingers. “Miss Price has requested a magistrate. I have no choice but to tell them the truth. I’ll tell them it couldn’t have been me, because I was here with you, all night long.”

His eyes flared. “What? Diana, you can’t tell them that.”

The vehemence of his reply took her by surprise. He pushed off the table and went to the forge, raking the coals of the dying fire and feeding it new splits of wood.

“I don’t think I have a choice,” she said. “It is the truth.”

“Yes. And if you tell them, you will be ruined. In truth.”