Page 7 of Loving the Blacksmith
He stood up, feeling ten feet tall in front of her, and wild, just as she’d said the other day. And though he’d not been sure what to make of the word at the time, he now understood it had been a compliment. Because the difference in stature and appearance between them was undeniably arousing. It highlighted both his masculinity and her femininity, intensified the tension between them and made their proximity all the more explosive.
Together they would set the sheets on fire, he was certain of it.
He took a step back, warding off the temptation to put the shocking thought to the test there and then.
“Well, good night then, Agnes.”
She bit her bottom lip and he almost broke through his self-imposed restraint. Would it be so bad to reach for her? To draw her into his arms and?—
“Good night, Magnus.”
CHAPTER THREE
The bucket was heavier than she had anticipated, she should not have crammed it so full. Agnes gritted her teeth. Another few steps and she would be inside the forge. Surely she would be able to make it to the table? It was not so far.
Just as she passed the door, she stumbled and ended up crashing against the door frame leading to her room. The bucket fell at her feet, scattering turnips and onions everywhere, Panting, she thanked her lucky stars the door had been opened. She would have smashed headfirst against the wood panel otherwise.
When she finally felt steady enough to move, she found that she could not. Damnation, the back of her dress had caught on something she could not even see and she could not reach it to disentangle herself.
As she debated what to do, the door to the forge opened behind her. Thank God, Magnus was here. She had started to fear she would have to rip Ingrid’s dress to free herself. Her new friend had assured her she was in no hurry to get the dress back but Agnes had no intention of giving it back with a big rip in it.
“Could you come in here a moment?” she called out, guessing he would not have realized the situation she was in. “I’m trapped.”
It was ridiculous to ask for help for such a thing, but she hadn’t managed to free herself, no matter how much she’d tried, so she might as well ask for Magnus’ help. Better to sacrifice her pride than tear a garment that did not belong to her.
A hand landed on the small of her back, warm and strong. “Trapped, are we?”
Agnes stilled. Was this really Magnus? Suddenly she wasn’t so sure. He felt just as massive behind her, and he’d entered the forge as if he had every right to, but his touch felt odd, and his voice sounded somehow lighter than the blacksmith’s, with a mocking edge she had never heard before and that made her uncomfortable. He might tease her, but he never made her feel inadequate.
She twisted around and gasped. It wasn’t Magnus at all, even if he looked very similar. But since her arrival in the village she’d had chance to see that all the men here were tall, blond and muscular. No wonder in the corner of her eye she hadn’t seen anything suspicious.
“My dress got caught on a nail or a hook or something as I brushed past the door,” she explained, wishing now she had not called out to him. The hand poised on her lower back seemed to have burned a hole through the wool of her gown.
“Mmm, yes, so I see. What will you give me as a reward for freeing you?”
“Reward?”
“Yes,” he purred, oblivious to the strangled sound she gave. “I think you should make it worth my while, don’t you?”
“No.” The word darted out of her mouth. After all, she was not asking for anything too taxing.
Instead of backing away, he laughed at her answer. “A spirited one, hey. My brother will have his hands full with you.”
“You’re Magnus’ brother?” Now she understood the similarities between them. He was not just any Norseman, he was the brother she had heard mentioned a few times.
“Sven. At your service.”
“Then if you are, please, would you unhook my dress? I don’t want to damage it any further.”
“I can certainly help you... remove it altogether.”
The hand at her back slid lower. Everything within Agnes tightened. She was trapped, literally. If he wanted to tear the dress from her or claim his “reward”, as he’d called it, for helping her out, she could do nothing. Even if she had been free of her movements, the man was too massive for her to have a chance at escaping his lust.
Her heart started to beat a frantic rhythm. What was she to do?
“Sven?”
The voice cut through the panic building inside her. She had been about to snatch at the dress, and run away, regardless of the state of it. She was sure Ingrid would have understood, when she explained her predicament.
