Page 6 of Loving the Blacksmith
“What is that?” he asked, arching a brow.
“Oh. A man called Arne came to ask if you could make him a chain to hang a cooking pot over the fire. You were busy hammering away so I put one here because I did not want to forget to tell you.”
“You did not just put it there, though, did you. You arranged it there.” There was no mistaking her effort at disposing it in an artistic manner.
“Yes. In the shape of a bird. He told me his name meant ‘eagle’.”
“Oh, so that’s abird? I was wondering.”
The teasing had the desired effect. Agnes blushed a delicious color. “Yes, or at least, it was supposed to be. I thought it would help me remember who requested the chain, as it seemed important to deliver the message accurately. I wanted to be useful.”
Something in his heart fluttered. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mocked you. This was very kind and clever of you. Let’s hope next time you don’t speak to Wolf.”
To his relief, she smiled. “Yes. A wolf’s head would be rather hard to recreate.”
The next day he’d found five nails in a woven basket. The thing that had fluttered in his chest the day before stretched its wings again.
“Let me guess. Sigurd came?” The man had a talent for basket weaving, so it made sense. “How many nails does he want?”
“Fifty. I thought the long nails would represent ten, the short ones one.”
“Very good. If you carry on like this, I won’t want you to leave,” he told her as they sat down to eat. “You are far too valuable to me. You help while I work and you ensure I eat like a king as well. That mushroom stew is excellent.”
He chewed on his mouthful thoughtfully. It was true that she was a helpful companion, and a talented cook, but that was not the reason why he wanted her to stay. It was good having her with him and he felt sure he would have felt the same had she been useless in the forge or in the kitchen.
“It’s nothing,” she said in her usual shy manner. “And you roasted the partridge to perfection. How did you even catch it? I didn’t see you take any sling or bow or anything this morning.”
“I don’t need anything. I just use stones.”
“Stones?”
He shrugged. “From a young age I have hunted birds with stones. It amused me to test my accuracy, and I have become quite adept at it.”
“Will you show me how you do that?”
“Why? You don’t believe me?” He let out a short laugh he regretted when she flushed to the roots of her hair.
“N-no, it’s only... I’ve never heard of anyone doing that before and I?—”
“I know. Forgive me. More stew?” he asked, hoping to regain the ease between them. Why was he constantly teasing her and making her ill at ease? One of these days he might go too far.
Agnes shook her head and nodded toward his left wrist instead. “How is the burn?”
“Much better, thank you.”
It was better. He only noticed it because every time he did, it made him think of how she had taken care of him. More than once he’d thought that he would gladly singe his whole body if it meant her running her fingers over him to soothe the burn.
“Show me.”
The same two words he’d told her the other day. Why did they sound so arousing? He had no idea.
When he made no move to obey, she came to stand by his stool. His breath hitched in his chest because in that position, his mouth was level with her maddening breasts, the perfect shape of which he had not been able to forget. Did she have no fear, coming to him like this? Wasn’t she worried about what he might do? Not that he would ever hurt her, of course, but there were still many a thing he could do to her, things hewantedtodo to her. Slowly, his gaze never leaving hers, he lifted the cuff of his shirt. His whole body tensed when she took his wrist to turn it around and expose the burn.
“It’s not too bad,” she murmured. “I think the honey helped.”
“Yes.”
He had to go, now, or he would do something unwise. Draw her onto his lap to run his hands all over her too tempting body, grab the back of her neck to kiss her too luscious mouth, rip the bodice of her dress open to suckle her too perfect breasts. The possibilities were endless, each worse than the other.
