Page 53 of Her Magnificent Mistake
CHAPTER 9
Hawk ignored the sounds coming from the stable at his back and focused on the piece of ash clamped in the workpiece of the shaving horse. His boots pressed against the treadle to hold the wood in place, as he bent forward to draw the spokeshave down it.
It was an ancient, comforting sort of motion, one he had done a thousand times before, and one he could do another thousand times.
It helped him ignore the knot in his chest. A knot he knew was caused by the uncertainty of not being able to see Marcia last night, since she’d eaten with Bull in his room. He wanted to hold her. He wantedanswers—not just toHow is Bull, but alsoDo we have a chance at forever now?—and he was too cowardly to insist upon them.
So instead of storming into the blue suite, he was in the tool shed.
This morning he was making an ax handle, as his had broken.
Of course, as the Baron Tostinham, he shouldn’t be doing this. The stablehands had frowned in confusion the first time he’d shown up in the little workshop, interested in chopping wood for the kitchen fires.
They’d told him not to be ridiculous; there were servants employed to chop wood.
And if the lord of the manorinsistedon chopping his own firewood, then the least he could do was use one of the half dozen axes stacked around the woodshop, rather than the battered old tool Hawk’s grandfather had used.
And if the lord of the manorinsistedon using the bloody thing, then when it broke, he should have a servant make a new handle.
And if the lord of the manorinsistedon working with his hands and doing something so pedestrian as shaving a piece of ash down into the proper shape for an ax handle…then he shouldn’t complain when the draw knife caught the meaty part of his thumb.
Cursing, Hawk straightened and shook his hand as though he could shake the pain free, then held up his thumb to check for blood.
Not the first time he’d scarred himself with a blade, and it wouldn’t be the last. Really, it was a wonder anyone allowed him near an ax at all.
But the physical labor helped him think.
Or, if necessary,notthink.
This morning it had been the latter.
After a sleepless night—spent pacing his room, wondering if he ought to go check on his childhood friend, dreading what Marcia would say to Bull, uncertain what to say to either of them—he’d padded down to the kitchens before sunrise to slip a few buns from the cook who still remembered him fondly.
And then he’d come out to the woodshed to chop wood.
The familiar rhythm, the strain on his arms and shoulders, the sweat on his neck and back…all of it allowed him to focus. Focus on something besides Marcia and what heights they’d shared yesterday.
On something besides the realization that Bull didn’t trust Hawk with his sister; he would never give his blessing. Perhaps Marcia had been right, and ten years ago Bull had been delighted to welcome Hawk into his family. But they had been different people then. Bull’s reaction yesterday, upon learning that Hawk and Marcia were alone together, simply proved that wasn’t the case anymore.
Frowning down at the red welt along his thumb, Hawk realized he was doing a shite job ofnot thinking about it.
Perhaps he should focus instead on what had happened in the cottage. The way her skin had felt against his. The way she’d moaned his name as she’d clawed at his back. The way she’d quivered under his thrusts.
His Marcia had always been open and free with her passion, and yesterday…yesterday had been a miracle. As if ten years apart hadn’t happened. As if they were two young people in love who had the world of possibilities at their feet.
Focus, ye idiot.
Shaking his head, Hawk bent over the ash again, trying to keep the motion of the spokeshave smooth as he drew it along the wood. Three more strokes, then he eased the pressure on the treadle so he could turn the ash and clamp it back into place, continuing to shave the wood into the shape he needed.
Once this ax handle was done, he’d reattach his grandfather’s ax head and attack the logs out back. The kitchen ovens would be well-supplied, thanks to him. And if he spent the rest of Marcia and Bull’s visit out here in the woodshed, hiding, well then…he might be able to chop enough fuel to last Tostinham all winter.
Coward.
Aye, that he was. No change there.
“Hawk?”
At first he thought he imagined Marcia’s voice, and he frowned, determined to ignore what was clearly his brain’s auditory hallucinations. Likely brought on by blood poisoning or something. Who knew when this spokeshave had last been cleaned?
