Page 5 of Loving the Blacksmith
“It’s all right. You don’t have to explain yourself. If that’s what you think then there must be a reason.” Magnus put an end to her embarrassment by asking a question. “Anyway, why is it that you know so much about burns and how to treat them?”
She reddened. “Because I’ve been burned on more than one occasion myself.”
“How come? You’re no blacksmith.”
She understood from the way he frowned that he was worried the burns had been inflicted by someone in her family. This proof that he worried about her warmed her. But no, no one had hurt her. Not in that way, at least.
“I was rather clumsy, growing up, so I ended up with my share of scrapes and burns.” She lifted the hem of her skirts to show him what she meant. Only when Magnus’ eyes caught fire did she realize what she was doing. Feeling caught out, she covered herself once more. Of course she could not bare her legs to a man thus! What was she thinking? Wasn’t it enough that he had seen her naked earlier that day?
But Magnus didn’t seem surprised by her willingness to expose herself, or even eager to see her leg. He seemed only concerned to see the extent of her injuries.
“Show me,” was all he said.
Slowly, she uncovered her lower leg to show him the white patch in the middle of her calf. It was about the size of her hand, puckered and wrinkled. She had always hated it and could not explain the odd urge to show it to Magnus but the way he looked at it made her think it was nothing to be ashamed of.
“This is the worst one,” she whispered, moved by his reaction.
“What happened?”
“I dropped a bucket of boiling water over my leg when I was about eight or nine, while making pottage for the family. It hurt like the devil.”
“Yes, it would have.” Magnus looked so appalled she could not help a laugh. Hadn’t he suffered much worse at the forge? Then the laughter got stuck in her throat when he asked, “Why were you the one hefting buckets of boiling water when you were aged only eight? It seems to me you were not clumsy, you were simply too young for the task.”
That was one way of seeing it. And it was true she had not burned herself as much later on in life, when she had been older and strong enough to see to her household chores adequately. But she had not been given the luxury of choice. In her father’s mind, a girl had to work to feed the family, and that was that. Her age was irrelevant.
“Not all of them are as bad,” she reassured him.
“Show me.”
There it was again, the quiet order, as if he had every right to see parts of her body no one else ever saw. It caused her to shiver, because, well, he had seen all of it only this morning. “I can’t. They’re... not in a place I can easily show you.”
Or modestly.
From the way he let his gaze roam over her, she guessed he was trying to imagine where the other scars would be. She had the sudden, mad idea of making him kiss each and every one of them, starting with the one on her shoulder blade before allowing his lips to glide down her back in search of the one on her left hip and then opening her legs so he could lick the small one on the inside of her thigh.
She shivered at the scandalous thought.
“How many scars are we talking about?” His beautiful eyes, usually so blue, had gone the color of a dusky sky. His voice, already rough, had gone the texture of tree bark. She shivered again. Yes, wild did not begin to describe the man.
“It’s not as bad as you think. Only three more.”
“Three too many, then.”
“I wager you have suffered more, being a blacksmith.” To illustrate her point, she lifted his arm, turning it this way and that, exposing the white streaks crisscrossing his forearm.
His muscles flexed. My. He was so strong, and, yes, so wild. It always came back to this with him. She had never seen men like him. Even Björn, who had struck her at first, when she’d methim in her village, didn’t have this rough edge. Was it because he was older? Because he worked with fire and made sparks fly with his hammer, like a demonic, untameable creature? She didn’t know. But he drew her like nothing else.
“Yes. I have suffered more burns than you,” he said, removing his arm from her grasp. “But it’s not the same. I asked for it.”
“No one asks to be hurt, or deserves to be.”
He plunged his gaze into hers. For a moment it looked as if he would say something. Then he thought better of it and stood back up.
“Come. Let’s find that honey.”
The next twodays were spent in easy companionship.
To Magnus’ delight, Agnes turned out to be an efficient helper. Not in the forge per se, as he refused to have someone who’d already suffered her share of burns anywhere near the scorching fire or the bellows. But she allowed him to focus on his work by talking to the people coming by, handling payments and making notes of what the villagers commissioned. Her way of doing it was ingenious and endearing at the same time. One evening he’d found a chain on his workbench, arranged in an unusual shape.
