The snap and smoke and bright heart of the fire had always held allure for him. Since childhood, he had respected fire, understood its moods, its gifts, its dangers, and he had always savored the challenge of working with it. For a moment he wondered why he had hesitated to begin smithing again.
Then he remembered. Once again his vision turned to shards of light, independent of the glowing forge. He closed his eyes, now wary of the work. Then he turned his concentration to his task, reminding himself that he was a smith, trained and born to it. Like the fire in the forge, hope and passion had begun to flare in him again, sparked in many ways by Eva. She was a continuing thread of fire in his life and his heart, delicate and powerful.
Picking up a pair of tongs, he pinched the hasp and placed it in the fire. The black iron reddened and began to glow. When it was yellow-red, he pulled it out and rested it on the anvil face. Snatching up a small hammer, he gave the softened metal a few taps, changing its shape as if it were malleable clay.
"It is like magic, what you do," Eva breathed, watching. "You touch iron to fire, and it turns to solid flame."
A sudden hot spiral of lust ran through him at the image her words created in his mind. He glanced at her, nodded.
"Tam Lin," she said, smiling. He cocked his head in wordless question while he worked. "Have you never heard the story? Tam Lin was stolen away by the faery queen, and his lover vowed to save him. He came to her in a dream and told her what to do. 'I will grow in your arms, love, like iron in strong fire,'" Eva sang, her voice low and true. "'But hold me fast, let me not go...'" She stopped.
"Go on," he said, and tapped the metal again, so that sparks flew out. "I have heard it, but forgotten."
"'I am your heart's desire,'" she finished in quiet melody.
Lachlann hit the metal too hard. He looked at her and saw her blushing. "Ah," he murmured. "I do remember that." Heart's desire indeed, he thought. Blood simmering, he remained outwardly calm and focused his attention on the work.
Foolish, he thought, smacking hammer to hot iron, to crave another man's bride, his enemy's betrothed. Foolish, he repeated on the next strike, to love her so fiercely, yet always hold back. The final slam sent sparks out and dented the metal deeply.
The piece would need reheating and rehaping now. He turned back to the fire, aware that Eva was watching. How much longer could he endure being near her every day, loving her with every fiber of his being, and yet acting cool toward her—but for the dangerous moments when he lost his hold over desire and longing? How long before he kissed her again and could not stop there?
And what would she do if that happened? His body pulsed as he stabbed the iron into the hot core of the fire, brushing the crumbling ash at its edges.
He had to know what she wanted, and he had to find some peace and resolution to the matter, for her sake as well as his own. Strong as steel he might be, but his own core was molten, and would not be contained for long.
He frowned and made himself focus on the iron, which glowed brightly now. He whipped the piece out of the fire to rest it on the anvil. Then he struck it, turning it with the tongs, teasing it with the hammer until the metal bent to his will and approached the image in his mind.
Repeating the steps until the shape of the hasp was precise, he doused the hot iron in a tub of water beside the anvil, then laid it, dripping and still sizzling, on the anvil.
"There is your new lock," he said.
Eva nodded. "In the old tales, the blacksmiths were said to be magicians. Now I see why. That transformation does truly seem like magic. You make it look easy."
"Sometimes it is. Sometimes not." He spoke curtly.
"I am curious to try it." She glanced up at him.
He lifted a brow, but he knew she could do it. Wordlessly, he reached for a pair of leather gloves and a set of tongs. "Pick up that iron rod and put it into the fire. Go on," he encouraged when she hesitated.
She used the pincers awkwardly at first, picking up a short iron rod from the anvil, nearly dropping it. She slid one end into the crackling bed of fire, wincing at the searing heat.
"Careful," he cautioned. "Let it sit there. Now give the fire some air—just enough. Pull on the handle... a little more muscle in it now. I know you are strong enough for it."
She yanked downward on the horn handle, then released it. The fire expanded like a living thing.
Lachlann stilled her hand on the bellows handle after she pulled it. "Enough. When the iron turns cherry red, it can be worked. 'Cherry red to pigeon blue, the steel is strong, the temper is true,'" he recited. "Finlay taught me that when I was young. Colors are important in smithing. They tell the smith what to do and when to do it."
"The red is turning more golden now," she observed.
"Take it out. Work fast, for it loses heat quickly."
When she transferred the iron rod to the anvil, Lachlann rested his hand over her gloved one on the tongs, helping her grip the red-hot iron. With a small hammer, he rapped at the metal until it bent, and he demonstrated changing the angle on the strike. Then he handed Eva the hammer.
She gave the hot iron metal a timid little knock. Lachlann helped her turn the rod as she hit it. When her strikes grew bolder, he let go. He smiled to himself as he watched, pleased that she had not retreated from the challenge or the danger.
Then she tapped it so vigorously that a small shower of sparks flew out. She shrieked and stepped back, into him, her foot tromping on his.
"Easy," he cautioned. Eva stood within the bowl of his arms, and he kept her there, helping her hold tongs and hammer. Heat filled the space between their bodies. He guided her through more strikes, explaining with gestures and few words.
"It stopped glowing," she said, sounding disappointed.
"Just give it another heating."
With greater confidence, she went through the steps again, heating, tapping, heating again. When next she struck the hot iron, it looped for her, luminous and crooked. Eva laughed in delight, and Lachlann smiled.
"What are you making?" he asked her.
"I had not thought about it! Can I make a hook from this?"
"You can make whatever you want. It follows your will. Be firm, be alert and relaxed, and know your purpose. That, my girl, is the secret of the blacksmith's magic." He winked.
She smiled, even glowed. "Will. That is the secret?"
He nodded. "Fire, iron, and tools can be used by anyone. It is the will, the intent, the imagination that makes the difference." He smiled, realizing that he liked teaching her. The errant thought that he would like to teach her something about desire and loving slipped through his mind.
Eva gave him a measuring glance, and he wondered if she read his wayward thoughts. She turned to heat the iron piece again, and laid it out to strike it. Sparks flew, and tiny stars landed on his forearm.
Lachlann winced and shook off the burning, then dipped his forearm quickly in a bucket of cold water beside the anvil.
"Oh!" Eva said, pausing. "I am sorry!"
"Do not stop," he said. "And watch where you wave your tools when you apologize. Keep going. Heat it and work it."
At last she bent the iron into a passable hook, then doused it in water and held it up, smiling proudly. Lachlann congratulated her, then took out another rod he had already heated and showed Eva how to strike the piece to flatten it into a leaf-shaped pointed blade.
"Simple knives are made this way," he explained.
"Ah," she said. "Then I could make weapons myself."
"Arm your kinsmen with little iron kitchen knives? Ochan, that will further your rebellion," he drawled.
She wrinkled her nose. "Show me more. I like this."
"You like it too much." He took the tongs, the half-beaten iron, and the hammer from her. "You would play here all day, and then when would I get my work done, hmm?"
"I will not bother you for long today," she said. "I promised to meet Alpin. But I can help you in here again, if you want. I could help you
every day, and be your assistant."
While he tapped heated iron into another hook, he frowned, considering what she said. He preferred working alone, but he could not resist the prospect of more time with Eva—even though he should resist that. "Some of the smithing would go faster with two sets of hands," he ventured. "Nails and horseshoes and that sort of thing."
"Hooks and chains," she agreed. "I could do those."
"You always were a fiery girl," he murmured, and she smiled, cheeks and eyes bright. He grinned, shrugged as if in surrender. "Well, if you want to be my apprentice, you will have to pay close attention. There is much to learn." He slid the rod into the fire for another heating.
She nodded eagerly. "I can learn this. In the past, I think sometimes you and Finlay did not want me around."
"Smiths do not like distractions while they work. We might get burned watching a girl instead of the hot iron," he said wryly, removing the rod from the forge bed.
"Was I a distraction, back then?"
He hesitated. "Sometimes."
"Am I now?"
"Definitely. Now be quiet. Smiths like silence." He tapped the glowing rod, and sparks burst forth. "Do not stand so close," he told her. "Sparks fly like shooting stars when you are around. I think you make them all by yourself."
She laughed and shuffled back. "Why are you using that sort of hammer? What are you doing now?"
"Hush, you," he said. Eva nodded mutely. He worked swiftly and surely to create more hooks, giving them a practical, elegant S shape. The work lacked challenge, but producing any handsome, useful item brought him satisfaction and pleasure.
Being with Eva gave him a great deal of pleasure, too. He glanced at her again. She was most definitely a distraction, with her hair wisping in dark curls, and a rosy sheen on her face. The smithy had grown hot, and sweat dripped down his back, beaded on his brow. He wiped his forearm over his face.
For a moment, a shadow drifted over his vision. Blinking, he narrowed his eyes to correct the flaw, and wondered if he would ever be able to do more than bend hot iron into simple shapes.
In Perth, he had smithed only black iron, had not worked steel. At Balnagovan, memories and dreams and expectations existed. A faery sword awaited him, and Jehanne's own sword was hidden away. He could not escape broken dreams here.
Glancing at Eva as his vision cleared, he savored the sight of her, like a balm for his weary eyes. To him, she had always seemed to glow, fiery and enduring. He smiled ruefully to himself, glad she was here, feeling good in her presence, healing a little. And he wondered if he would ever be able to express his gratitude or his love to her.
He looked down, made another fold in the willing iron, and told himself to think only of his task. The forge burned merry and the iron was hot, demanding quick work and quicker thought. The smithing had begun.
Chapter 16
Waking from the strange peace of a wonderful dream, Eva stirred and opened her eyes. The warmth and joy of the dream lingered: Lachlann stood at a blazing forge, his body bronzed and hard-hewn in the amber light. Eva watched while he shaped a shining sword; somehow she knew it was a faery blade. He handed it to her, smiling, and then he kissed her, deep and thorough and tender, until her body melted inside and she clung to him, yearning for more as he touched her fervently with hot, gentle hands.
Outside, the wind howled and the rafters creaked. The stones that held the thatching, slung on ropes, thunked against the exterior walls. Eva turned restlessly in the shelter of Lachlann's bed and thought of him sleeping in the smithy on his bed of heather. After that passionate dream, she ached inside, a hollow of loneliness. Rising from the bed, she dressed in a plain woolen gown, pulled on her arisaid, and drew on her shoes. Going to the door, she opened it on a windy, dove gray morning.
Light showed already in the smithy windows, and the hammer rang like a muffled bell. Perhaps, she thought, that deep, driving sound had stirred her dream of him.
After she had tended to the necessary chores and had made some fresh, hot oatcakes, she wrapped a few in a cloth and crossed the meadow. A brisk wind whipped at her hair and her arisaid, and as she came closer to the smithy, the steady clang of the hammer continued. She knocked firmly on the door and opened it, stepping into the dim interior.
Lachlann stood at the forge, wearing a plaid and a linen shirt, his dark hair gleaming in the firelight. He nodded to her and turned back to his work.
She closed the door and found a dim interior, for the windows were shuttered against the cold air. The lingering smell of charcoal and metal was strong, and flames burned brightly on the forge bed. Eva moved toward it, lured by that cheery warmth.
"Have you come to help out this morning?" Lachlann asked, smiling briefly. "After I finish a few things here, I will shoe the horses."
"I would not be much help with the horses," she said, for she had seen that process often and did not relish standing behind a horse and coaxing it to put up its hoof for her to pound nails into it. "I brought you something to eat," she said, leaving the oatcakes on a table that held tools. He nodded. "And I came to ask if you would repair this for me." She unpinned the silver brooch at her shoulder. "I know you are not a silversmith—"
"But I did promise to fix this," he said, his glance meeting hers briefly. He took the circlet from her and wiggled the clasp and the broken loop. Then he set a thin poker in the fire until it reddened, and carefully touched the red-hot point to the broken piece, using small tongs to meld the softened silver. After dipping the silver into the water, he laid it on the anvil.
"Careful now," Lachlann said, as Eva reached for the brooch. She winced when she touched the hot metal and snatched her fingers back.
"The first lesson any smith learns," Lachlann said, "is that metal that looks cool can still be very hot even after it has' been doused in water. Always test a piece before you touch it."
Eva nodded, and tapped the brooch with a tentative fingertip. Lachlann picked it up. Moving closer, he fastened the brooch in her plaid, his knuckles brushing her collarbone. He stood so close that she felt his warmth, and felt something spin deep inside of her.
"'There," he murmured. "I am sorry it took so long to fulfill the promise." His thumb smoothed over the silver circlet, and his fingers brushed her shoulder, rousing shivers in her. "Before I ever went to France, I expected you to bring the brooch to me for repair," he said. "I waited for you, but you never came. And I did not see you when I went to Innisfarna to deliver the weapons I owed your father."
She felt pulled into his brilliant blue gaze. "You waited for me to come to the smithy?"
He smiled a little. "I would have fixed the brooch for you, had you come then."
"Oh," she said. "I—I did not think you wanted to see me after..."
"Of course I did," he murmured, then stepped back and turned toward the forge. "I have work to do. When these tasks are done, today or tomorrow, I am going to Glen Brae."
"Alpin will row you over to see Mairi whenever you like."
"This time I will ride. I want to find the charcoal burner," he said, his back to her. "I need to buy some quality goods for the forge, and I have some questions to ask the man." As he spoke, he slid an iron rod into the fire and pulled on a pair of leather gloves.
Eva felt a pang of sympathy, knowing he meant to ask about the deaths of the parents he had never known. "I will go with you if you like."
He paused. "I must do this alone, Eva."
She nodded, and stepped closer. "Can I help you now?"
"You can watch the iron," he said, and handed her the tongs and a twig brash. While she prodded the ashes, he collected other tools and laid them on the anvil. He slipped a chisel vertically into a hole in the anvil face, so that the point protruded upward.
"The rod is starting to glow," she said, and Lachlann reached past her to pluck the iron out with tongs and set it over the chisel edge. Swift strikes with the hammer divided the luminous rod into sections. Deft and quick, he shaped each piece wit
h tongs and hammer to form links.
"This will be your new pot chain," he said, and welded the links onto a partial chain that he had already begun.
Intrigued by his sureness and speed, Eva watched, listening to the hard rhythm of the hammer. Soon she realized that the smithy had become very warm, with the door and windows shut against the chill. Sweat beaded on Lachlann's brow, and he wiped it with his forearm as he built the sturdy black chain.
He slid more rods into the fire, then paused to slide his plaid off his left shoulder and tug off his shirt, tossing it onto a nearby workbench. He glanced at Eva.
"This place can get hot as summer, even on the coldest days," he said, wiping his damp brow again.
She blinked, nodded, as he resumed work. The muscles of his chest and arms rippled, rounded and defined, beneath smooth, gleaming skin. Her breath quickened as she remembered the unforgettable vision of Lachlann forging a faery blade, his body hewn and bronzed, his eyes like piercing blue flames. Now he was simply an earthly man doing ordinary labor, yet he was utterly compelling to watch.
Desire raced hot and fast through her as she remembered the feel of those broad arms, the delicious touch of his mouth upon hers. Aware that she wanted him keenly, body and soul, she wrapped her arisaid more tightly around her as if to smother her feelings.
The hammer chimed and thunked on the anvil, the rhythm driving down into her body. Eva stepped back, breathing quickly, and when sparks showered outward, she turned away. Lifting his discarded shirt, she folded its inviting scent against her, then hung it on a pegged rack beside sets of tongs. Strolling around the smithy, she trailed her hand over the tools, over the table surfaces. She glanced at Lachlann, who seemed completely absorbed in his work.
In the far corner of the room she saw the heather bed, and imagined Lachlann asleep there. She wondered if he ever dreamed of her, as she did of him, and she sighed.
In a corner, she saw several pieces of iron—horseshoes, rods, and a broken plough. Crossing the room, she picked up one of the horseshoes curiously. "What will you do with all this iron?" she asked.
Susan King - [Celtic Nights 03] Page 15
