Beauty and the Blacksmith (Spindle Cove #3.5)(26)
Author: Tessa Dare

The rain was back. With a vengeance.

Aaron didn’t know what to do with himself. All the Queen’s Ruby ladies would surely be sleeping in today, Diana included. He couldn’t go call on her until late afternoon, and there wasn’t much sense braving this downpour to go anywhere else. He’d looked in on Mr. Maidstone early that morning, after walking Diana back to the rooming house.

He decided to start on a wrought-iron gate for the front garden. He’d long been planning to replace the humble wooden one. He’d just never found the time.

Today, he had all the time he wished.

He built a roaring fire in the forge and took out a length of squared stock. To make spiraling balusters for the gate, he needed to heat the iron to a glowing yellow, crank furiously to secure it in a table vise, grasp the end of the rod with tongs, then twist the metal in as many rotations as he could manage before it cooled.

Then repeat the whole business again. And again.

It was hard, sweaty work—and just the distraction he needed today.

He’d been at it for an hour or two when he saw a figure hurrying up the lane. Who would come out in this weather? He hoped it wasn’t the Maidstone girl again, come to tell him her father had taken a turn for the worse.

But when the door burst open, in came Diana.

She removed her cloak and hung it on a peg near the door, then played stork by standing on one foot, then the other, tugging off the canvas gaiters covering her shoes.

Aaron merely stood and stared, letting his rod of twisted iron go cool in the vise. “You shouldn’t be out in this weather. You’ll catch cold.”

Perhaps he should have greeted her with Good day, or What a pleasant surprise, or Did I tell you last night that I love you to the depths of my soul? But he couldn’t be bothered with pleasantries now. She’d pledged herself to him, always. He wanted “always” to be a long, long time.

“I just needed to see you. To talk to you. It couldn’t wait.” She hurried toward him.

“Stop,” he said.

She stopped, taken aback.

He cursed his thoughtlessness again. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bark at you. But have a care for your hem and slippers.”

He nodded at the ground.

She’d crossed from the paved half of the smithy and trod straight onto the cinders, dragging her damp flounce through the packed soot. That sort of soil was near impossible to clean. Anyone who saw it would know where she’d been.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I’m cold. I want to be nearer the fire. And you.”

“Then put your hands on my shoulders.” When she complied, he slid a forearm under her hips and lifted, boosting her to sit on the anvil. He kept his hand clenched and out of the way, to keep from mussing her frock.

But once he had here there, sitting sweetly on his anvil . . .

By God, he wanted to muss her all over.

Five minutes ago, he would have sworn there was no sight on earth more enticing than Miss Diana Highwood in her china-blue frock.

But he was wrong.

There was a sight more enticing. It was Miss Diana Highwood in her china-blue frock, damp with rain.

The cloak had protected her from the worst of it, but enough of the weather had seeped through that her bodice might as well have been a coat of paint. Her ni**les were hard and perfectly outlined.

Her legs dangled above the cinder floor. He caught a glimpse of her white-clad ankles. No silk stockings today, just sensible wool. He still found them arousing as hell.

“I wasn’t expecting you.” He wiped his brow with his sleeve, then showed her his blackened hands. “Sit here by the forge. I’ll go wash up, find a fresh shirt, build a fire in the cottage. Then I can warm you properly.”

She reached for him. “No, stay. Stay with me.”

“If you like.”

Frowning, he studied her, trying to decide whether her shivering was due to the damp weather or a fragile emotional state. Either way, he didn’t like feeling unable to help her.

He couldn’t warm her with his hands. But hands weren’t the only parts he had.

“Your fingers must be freezing,” he said, glancing down at her balled fists.

She nodded.

She wore those knitted handwarmers that seemed popular with all the ladies this spring. Fingerless gloves, he’d heard them called. In weather like this, “fingerless” struck him as tantamount to “useless,” but he didn’t pretend to understand ladies’ fashions.

He untied his leather apron and cast it aside. Then he jerked his homespun shirt free of his waistband and lifted it in invitation. “Put them here.”

She pressed her chilled hands flat to his torso. Their coolness gave him a jolt.

“Goodness,” she said. “You’re like a furnace.”

Love, you have no idea.

To be sure, her hands were cold. But her cold fingertips had less chance of dampening his lust than ten snowflakes falling on a bonfire.

His whole body was aflame with desire for her. Had been since long before she’d burst through the door. All he’d been able to think of since last night was her naked body under his. Her sweet touch against his bared skin.

Bending his head, he kissed the pink back to her lips, then her cheeks. He nuzzled the frosty snub of her nose. Licked a stray raindrop from her brow.

“That’s better,” she said.

“I’m just getting started.” He pressed a kiss to her neck. “But you had something to talk about?”

“It can wait.”

“Good.” He trailed kisses lower. “Good.”

Her fingers slid around his rib cage, spreading over the planes of his back, drawing him close. Instinctively, he moved to reciprocate and embrace her, too—but he remembered himself just in time to keep from smearing her frock with soot. Instead, he let his hands drop, and he gripped either end of the anvil.

Her neckline thwarted him. When damp, the muslin had no give. So he dropped his head lower, nuzzling her br**sts through her bodice.

She sighed and moved against him, seeking more contact.

He knew she wanted more. Needed more. And he knew how to give it to her, too. He just wasn’t sure she was ready to receive it.

No way to find out but to try.

He sank to his knees, ducked his head, and burrowed under her skirts.

She went completely still. Not a muscle moved, but he could hear her breathing. Her breath came from a low place, deep in her belly. Husky and yearning.

She didn’t tell him to stop.

He nibbled his way up the stocking-clad slope of her calf and knee, nosing his way through the tunnel of petticoats. When he reached her ribbon garter, he knew paradise was close. He laid his tongue to the bare silk of her inner thigh, then swept boldly upward. As he moved higher, his broad shoulders pushed her legs apart.