She was embarrassed. Hurt. Angry. But most of all, so very, very sad.
“I asked you not to speak of him.”
“And I would gladly listen if I had my sister back.”
“Perhaps she would come back if someone would stop reminding her of a certain smith.”
“Come.” Mother took each of them by the hand. “We will go back to the keep and sit in the garden. The weather is too beautiful for such arguments.”
Indeed, the sun was showing itself for the first time in three days.
“There’ll be no more talk of headaches,” Mother continued, looking at her, “or men.”
Which suited her well. If she never again heard the name Lance in her lifetime, it would be too soon. He was gone, never to return.
Unfortunately, he’d taken her heart with him.
26
“Idalia.” Her father stopped her as she made her way from the hall. “I would speak to you in the solar.”
She looked back to where her mother and sister were seated. Still at the head table. Still finishing their meal. She hadn’t even noticed her father behind her.
“But your meal . . .”
“I would speak to you now,” he repeated.
What could she do but follow him?
He led the way to his solar, and she fell in beside him, deep in thought about her problem.
Though she was beyond grateful for her mother’s improvement—and for her father’s reengagement in life at Stanton—she found it difficult to carry on as if all were well.
I wish I’d never met him.
It wasn’t the first time she’d had that uncharitable thought, but she didn’t quite believe it. Despite everything that had happened, despite the hurt that made it difficult to get out of bed in the morning, Idalia was grateful to have fallen in love with the blacksmith. To have known his touch, his love. He had made her feel as if she were someone special, and listening to him, she could almost believe she was as worthy of nurturing as Stanton’s people.
Tilly had been telling her as much for some time.
They reached the solar, and her father waved her inside. “Sit,” he commanded. She did, sighing inside. Idalia was certain her father didn’t realize how harsh he sounded at times. “It is his way,” her mother had always told her.
“I had hoped you would recover before now,” her father said once they were both seated, he behind his desk, she in front of it.
“Recover?”
“From the smith.”
He said it without mirth, straight-faced and serious.
“Father, I . . .” She stopped. What could she possibly say to that?
Had her mother told him? She’d assured Idalia she would not. So how did he know?
She crossed her hands on top of each other.
“I do not understand,” she said, forcing an even tone. “The blacksmith is long gone from Stanton, and he found a suitable replacement, just as you requested. In fact, just the other day at the market I spoke with the new smith. His work is nicely done—”
“You had affection for him, did you not?”
“He is much too old,” she said, deliberately misunderstanding.
Idalia had managed to force a rare smile from her father’s lips. “Wayland. Not the new smith.”
“How . . .” Nay, that would be admitting the truth. “I’m unsure how to respond, Father.”
She uncrossed her hands, laying them on her lap, and stared down at them, hoping for some divine intervention.
“You’ve resisted every match thus far.”
“You have been lenient with me, Father.”
It was true. He had not forced her to marry against her will. Not yet, anyway. And Roysa had, in the end, married a man she loved, or thought she loved, if Mother was to be trusted. That they had any say in the matter was unusual. She suspected it was her mother’s doing, especially after hearing about the man she had loved and lost.
“I have.” He cleared his throat and looked over her shoulder. Idalia spun in her seat, but there was nothing there.
He seemed uncomfortable and out of sorts. Unusual for a man who was typically very self-assured.
“Is all well, Father?”
“We shall see. The smith,” he continued. “Would you have taken him for a husband?”
Again, she stumbled on her words. “I . . . but . . .” Idalia took a deep breath. Somehow, he knew, and she could not deny it, not when the truth thrummed inside her, aching to be released. “Aye, I would have taken him for a husband.”
“Despite the lies he told?”
So Mother had told him. It was quite unlike her mother to break a confidence in such a manner, but there was no other explanation.
“I would have taken him as a husband”—she frowned—“before I learned he was here only for your support.”
“You do not approve of our alliance?”
A rather strange question from a man who rarely asked for her opinion and had never seemed to care about securing her approval.
“I do. And can understand his methods,” she admitted.
“Then?”
“He claimed to love me, and yet he waited until the last possible moment to share his true purpose with me,” she blurted out, her cheeks flaming with heat. If she thought it difficult to speak of such things with her mother, this was much, much worse.
“These are serious actions with even more serious consequences. For the blacksmith and for us.”
As if she did not understand her father, and Stanton by extension, flirted with treason.
“Aye, Father.”
Her hand found its way under the long sleeve of her gown to the bracelet she’d been loath to take off since her mother had abandoned it at the market. She knew her mother had likely not forgotten it—that she’d given it to her as a remembrance—yet she had not found the strength to give it back.
Twisting it, she waited, trying to understand what her father wanted from her or hoped to gain from this discussion. So he knew of Lance. And yet he’d not condemned her as a fool.
He’d not reacted as she’d feared.
“I would see you betrothed,” he said finally.
Her head shot up. “Nay!”
“It is time for you to marry,” he continued as if he’d not heard her. “Tilly will soon be of age.”
“Nay,” she repeated. “She is still a child.”
But it was untrue. She’d seen the signs, even if she wished to ignore them. And she’d always known this day would come. When her father stopped asking and began demanding.
“There is one man who asked for my permission, and despite the circumstances, I plan to give it.”
Twisting the bracelet faster and faster, Idalia desperately tried to think of an argument. Did her mother know of his plan? Why had she not warned her?
“Please, Father.”
Not yet. Not when her heart was still broken.
“You do not even ask his name.”
She didn’t care who he was. Idalia would not marry a stranger, no matter how handsome or powerful or kind.
“Please . . .”
“I may reconsider if you answer me honestly. I’ve just one question remaining.”
Idalia nearly fell off her chair. He would reconsider?
Her mother’s illness and recovery truly had changed the man she’d thought she knew.
“Do you love the smith?”
“Lance?”
She realized her mistake immediately. “That is to say, Master Lance?”
Her father just looked at her pointedly, waiting for an answer.
She could not look her father in the face and lie to him. Nor did she wish to lie to herself. So, after a moment’s hesitation, she nodded. “Aye, Father. I love him still.”
And hated herself for doing so.
“But what does this have to do with my betrothal?”
He lifted his chin, as if telling her to look behind her. Idalia knew what she’d see before she turned aroun
d. In truth, she should have known earlier, only she’d long since stopped hoping she’d see him again.
Hope could be a double-edged sword, after all, when the thing one hoped for never came to pass. And yet, she turned in her chair, and there he was—his frame filling the doorway as it had done at the forge.
“How long have you been standing there?” she managed.
“Long enough.”
She was taking in his appearance, his freshly washed hair that was still damp. The surcoat that made him look more like a knight than a blacksmith.
And then her father’s meaning finally registered.
She whipped back around to face him.
“The man you would have me betrothed to?”
“Stands behind you even now.”
He was serious.
Suddenly, Idalia realized her mother had not betrayed her confidence after all. Lance himself had told her father everything.
“He has asked to marry me?” she clarified, as if Lance were not in the room.
“He has.”
Her eyes widened. “And you have given your permission.”
“Aye.”
She had so many questions. But Why? did not seem appropriate, nor did blurting out, But he is a blacksmith.
Unless . . .
“Did you consult with Mother about his request?”
Her father stood, giving her that strange and disarming half smile again. “I did,” he admitted. “I will leave you to a discussion.”
Idalia stood when he did.
“Mind you, you’re only to have a discussion,” he told Lance as he left. “Do you understand?”
Lance bowed his head as the earl passed him. “Indeed, my lord.”
“Before you give your answer, daughter, you may want to look at that bracelet you’re wearing a bit closer.” With that strange remark, he stepped out of the room, giving Lance a final “Good eve, sir,” before he closed the door behind him.
Sir.
He had been Sir Lance Wayland all along. So many lies.
So very much to discuss.
And then she reached for the bracelet.
27
“Good den, my lady.”
“I’m not sure that it is, Sir Lance.”
She could breathe. In and out. It should be a simple matter.
“I’m hoping to change your mind about that,” he said, his eyes peering into hers.
When he took a step toward her, Idalia stood firm. He’d hurt her, horribly. And a few honeyed words would not make things right.
“You are angry, rightly so. But know this. If it takes an evening, a fortnight, a sennight, or a year . . . it matters not. I aim to make you my wife. You told your father you loved me still, which gives me the hope I need, though don’t deserve.”
So he had heard her.
Those were some sweet words, indeed. But even so . . .
“I told him that,” she began, still grappling with everything that had changed in the last minutes. “Because it is true. But marry you? Lance, you lied to me from the moment we met.”
His jaw flexed, and Idalia hated herself for the thoughts that ran through her head. The source of her anguish stood before her, but all she could think of was touching him and being touched by him.
“No less than I lied to myself. I never thought to marry, but meeting you, loving you . . . Idalia”—he took another step toward her and stopped—“you give of everyone and ask for nothing for yourself. Let me be the one to give you something back. Let me love you as I should have done from the start.”
She reached into her sleeve, twisting the bracelet around and around.
“How can I trust you?”
Lance shook his head. “It is not for you to trust me but for me to earn back that trust. I’m sorry that I tossed it aside so carelessly.”
“A part of me,” she admitted, “can understand why you did so. But if you’d just told me . . .” She shook her head. “A knightly order. A rebellion against the king. ’Tis nothing I’ve not heard before.”
His eyes widened.
“I’m jesting.” She smiled. “Your mission is an honorable one, though no less dangerous for its ambitions.”
Lance smiled back, which was the precise moment Idalia knew she was lying to herself. He would win her over. He’d already done so.
“I offer little, as your father knows already. A blacksmith by trade, an absent husband—”
“Absent?”
“Our mission is far from over. With your father’s support, we have some of the coin we need, and a few of the other Northern lords have already pledged their support, but to bring a king to heel is no small feat.”
“And you would propose to do this . . . without me?”
“I’d never put you in danger by taking you with me.”
She looked away from him, her shoulders sinking in defeat. It was just as she’d thought—even now, after everything, he would not confide in her.
Idalia only looked up when Lance stood immediately before her. Close enough to touch.
“You said I was just like him”—he lifted her chin—“but I am not. If you would come with me, then I would gladly have you by my side. As long as you understand the danger. But it is your choice. It will always be your choice, Idalia, because your thoughts have as much weight as my own.”
“You would take me with you?”
“Of course.”
“And seek my counsel?”
“Always.”
She looked into his eyes. Before she knew it, Lance had reached under her sleeve and grabbed her wrist. That simple touch was enough to set her heart racing, and she startled when he pulled back her sleeve.
“Your mother gave it to you?”
He unclasped the bracelet and took it from her.
“For a time, aye.”
He lifted it so she could see more closely.
“Good, for it is yours.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“Did you see this?”
Idalia looked at the engraving that she and her mother had noticed that first day.
“Aye. We wondered about that from the start.”
“Look closer. What do you see?”
She did as he asked. “’Tis a circle.”
“Closer.”
It was difficult to concentrate standing so near him. Idalia breathed in all that was Lance and attempted to see something more. For the first time, she noticed the faintest of lines around the circle.
“Lines. Faint ones. ’Tis the sun,” she realized.
Lance took her hand, but true to his word to her father, he did nothing more than place the bracelet back around her wrist, his touch gentle.
“’Tis the sun,” he confirmed.
And she understood.
The bracelet had not been for her mother after all.
Idalia. The meaning of her name was “behold the sun.”
“You made this for me.”
He nodded.
“I did.”
Idalia grabbed his hand before he could pull it away.
* * *
Lance touched his finger to his lips. She’d kissed his fingers briefly. Moments later, a knock had landed on the door, after which it had burst open to admit Tilly, who had apparently learned of his visit from their mother. When Lady Stanton had arrived to retrieve her, his reunion with Idalia had turned into a family gathering. And though she’d softened a bit when he told her of the bracelet, she was still angry with him.
Which was why he was roaming the halls of Stanton in the dead of night. He knew he should return to the bedchamber the seneschal had installed him in after he first spoke to Lord and Lady Stanton. If the earl caught him out here at this time of night, there would be no way to explain his presence in the corridors.
Except he still needed to speak to Idalia.
She had not accepted his offer of marriage.
They’d agreed to talk on the morrow, and yet, he found he could not wait
.
Lance cursed his decision not to take a torch or candle with him. Having worked in darkness his entire life, Lance could easily navigate it when he knew his surroundings. Stanton Castle was not so familiar. Still, Idalia’s maid had given him directions to her chamber door, and it was blessedly in a separate tower from her parents.
He’d come to Stanton with every expectation that he’d be turned away. Still, Terric’s words had refused to leave him. If he didn’t try, he’d regret it always. And so he’d come. He’d been pleasantly surprised when he was granted an audience with both lord and lady. Lady Stanton appeared the very picture of health compared with the woman whose sickbed he’d visited.
He’d delivered his case to the couple, Lady Stanton had whispered something in her husband’s ear, and a moment later, the earl had nodded at him. “A man who risks his life for justice, be he a great lord or tradesman, is worthy of my daughter.”
Another whispered word from wife to husband.
“You will, of course, need her permission.”
“Of course,” he’d said, thanking the earl. And his wife, the person truly responsible for such a miraculous decision.
He’d left the meeting full of hope for the future, but later that eve, when he’d stood outside the earl’s door, waiting for Idalia to possibly denounce him, he’d realized his work was not done.
He would secure her good opinion again if it was the last thing he did.
Cursing again as he reached her chamber door—at least he hoped it was her chamber door, although Leana’s instructions had been quite thorough—he knocked softly.
Idalia opened her door almost immediately, indicating sleep had not come quickly for her either. His eyes inadvertently slipped down to her nightclothes, a simple cream chemise.
“I’ve never seen your hair braided before.”
“You’ve never visited my bedchamber before.”
Certainly not.
“May I come in?”
If he was caught here in the hall, it would not endear him to the earl.
When she opened it wide for him to enter, Lance did not take the gesture for granted. He intended to tell her everything he’d kept from her, including every single feeling he’d held back.
The Blacksmith: Order of the Broken Blade Page 15
