Beauty and the Blacksmith (Spindle Cove #3.5)(2)
Author: Tessa Dare

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.

After tethering his horse on the village green, he made his way through the familiar red-painted door of the Bull and Blossom. He hunkered down on a stool in the nearly empty tavern, stacking his fists on the bar.

“Be right with you, Mr. Dawes,” the serving girl sang out to him from the kitchen.

“Take your time,” he answered.

He had all night. No one was waiting for him. No one.

He lowered his head and banged his brow against the anvil of his stacked fists. Coarse. Mutton-brained. Lout.

“Dawes, you need a woman.”

Aaron’s head whipped up. “What?”

Fosbury, the tavern keeper, plunked a tankard of ale on the counter. “I hate to say it. Unhappy bachelors are better for my profits. But you need a woman.”

“Tonight, a woman is not what I need.” He took a long draught of ale.

“She came around the forge today, didn’t she?”

Aaron lifted the tankard for another sip. “Who did?”

“Miss Highwood.”

Aaron choked on his ale.

“It’s no secret.” Fosbury wiped down the counter. “Ever since she showed up in this village, you’ve had eyes for her. Not surprising. You’re a man in your prime, and she’s the prettiest thing to grace Spindle Cove in some time.”

Aaron scrubbed his face with both hands. Curse him, Fosbury had too many things right.

From the first sight of her, he’d been utterly smitten. He had a weakness for finely wrought things, and by God, Diana Highwood was just so . . . perfect. In any other village, men might sit on these barstools and debate which woman deserved the honor of most comely in town. In this tavern, that debate would begin and end over a single sip of ale. Diana Highwood took the honors, without question. She had the face of an angel. Delicate and beautiful.

But though her fair looks might have caught his eye, other qualities had snared his heart.

It had all started the night they’d spent struggling to save Finn Bright’s life. The youth had lost his foot in an explosion, and he’d been brought to the forge for surgery. Miss Highwood wasn’t a healer or a nurse, but she’d insisted on staying to help. Bringing water, mopping blood, dabbing the sweat of delirium from Finn’s brow.

That was the night Aaron had learned the truth of Diana Highwood. That her delicacy was only skin deep—but the beauty went all the way through.

The longer she lived in this village, the more he found in her to admire. She wasn’t only beautiful; she was brave as well. Then determined, intelligent, charitable. By now, she was some sort of paragon in his mind, and Aaron worried that long after she left, he’d be comparing every woman he ever met to her.