Gwen
Here are some things I’ve daydreamed about doing with the valley’s stern blacksmith: baking cookies. Walking through the hills. Feeding him freshly picked blackberries, my fingertips pushing past his lips and his tongue licking the juice away.
Watching him hammer away in his forge, sweat sliding down his temples, then peeling his shirt off and licking his damp skin. Tasting his salt.
Dropping to my knees on the chilled stone floor, tugging at his belt buckle, and feeling his hungry gaze eat me alive.
You know, normal stuff. But you know what never made the list? Facing my father down again with Rhys by my side, my rumpled hair and flushed cheeks both damning evidence of what we were about to do.
It goes about as well as you’d expect. Insults are hurled and threats are exchanged. At one point, Rhys tucks me behind his arm, blocking me bodily from my father’s sharp words and spitting anger.
He doesn’t send me away, though. I like that about Rhys. He’s protective, yes, but he doesn’t keep me out of things that affect me.
And by the way: if I hear one more word about the freaking Thomas boy, I will scream at the rafters.
I’m sure he’s a nice enough lad but he’s nobody to me, in fact he’s wet behind both ears, and the only way they’ll get me down the aisle with him is hogtied in a wheelbarrow.
Does my father listen to that, though? No, sir.
“Dad,” I call at last from behind the blacksmith’s back, my hands clenched in his shirt.
Not to hold him back or anything—more like to anchor me to the earth.
“What is your plan here? I’m an adult, not a child.
You can’t force me to leave with you. Just like you can’t force me to marry, or to work on the farm my whole life. ”
“This man has stolen you.”
“I’m not one of your livestock,” I snap, nudging Rhys aside so I can glare at my father unimpeded. “And he’s not a sheep hustler. I can’t be stolen, Dad, I’ve simply taken myself away.”
The difference between the two men is stark in the warm light spilling from the kitchen.
Dad is not a small man, not by anyone’s measure, but Rhys looms over him, grim and silent in the face of the farmer’s wrath.
My father’s breathing hard, his lip peeled back in a grimace and his blond hair raked up by his hands, and I can’t help adding, “You’re always saying I’m useless and a burden.
Well, congratulations. You’re free of me. ”
There’s an eye twitch.
A vein pulses in his temple.
Oh, god. If he has a stroke out here, I have no idea what to do.
“You think he’ll want you?” A shaking finger jabs at the blacksmith. “Don’t be a fool, Gwendoline. He’ll get sick of you in less than a week, and then what will you do? Where will you go when you’ve burned your last bridges?”
My stomach sinks down my body, all the way to the floor, but it’s nothing I haven’t wondered about myself.
I clear my throat. “I’ll figure it out.”
And so I will. I’ve got a working pair of hands, haven’t I? A decent enough brain? I can find and keep a job, I can, and once I’m taking care of myself, the only person bossing me around will be me.
And Rhys Evans, maybe. If I ask him nicely. He bristles now as Dad laughs, loud and long. “Like hell you will.”
It’s a small mercy when my father’s tense back disappears into the darkness. He strides away from the forge, still muttering and bitter, and we both linger in the doorway and watch him go.
“Nice man,” Rhys murmurs after his sounds are finally soaked up by the night.
I sag against the doorway, grinning. I don’t think I’ve ever heard the blacksmith crack a joke.
“He has some good qualities.” Rhys stares down at me, thick eyebrows raised, so I add, “Deep, deep down. Way down. But he’s worried about his farm, that’s all. It’s all he’s got.”
Rhys huffs. “No, it’s not. If he thinks that, then he’s a bigger fool than I thought.”
Well… yeah. Hard to argue with that. And maybe it’s nuts, but now the tension has burst, I’m all giggly. This was one of the most unpleasant experiences of my life, and yet I feel like a helium balloon, about to bob around the ceiling.
I take the blacksmith’s hand and he lets me. Big fingers squeeze mine.
“Come on.” I tug, and he pulls the door closed behind us. “It seems you’ve stolen me, Rhys Evans. Time to have your wicked way.”
* * *
In a heartbreaking turn of events, the blacksmith does not bend me over his kitchen table and fuck the giggles clean out of me.
I complain loudly about that fact, trailing him from room to room as he picks up our used mugs and sandwich plates and washes them in the kitchen sink; as he checks the forge and clears away his tools for the day; as he fetches a pillow and blanket and tosses them onto his living room sofa.
My stomach clenches when he does that. I guess some part of me thought I’d be welcome in the bed—but that’s presumptuous of me. Hell, Rhys didn’t even invite me here. I just turned up, and now he’s letting me stay. Taking me in like a stray cat.
“I could find a room in town,” I offer way too late. What was I thinking, just assuming I could crash here? Rhys Evans barely knows me, and my father’s right. At this rate, the man will be sick of me in record time. Burning my last bridge indeed.
“No,” Rhys says. That’s it: no.
“Then I’ll pay you for your trouble.”
The blacksmith rounds on me, glowering. “No.”
I wet my bottom lip. He’s lit a fire in the living room hearth, and the firelight flickers over his olive skin and glints in his dark beard.
His black shirt cleaves to his huge biceps, his barrel chest, and the thick, muscled curve of his stomach, and I toy with the fabric of my skirt with a secret thrill when his eyes drop to track the movement.
“This will make things harder for you in the valley.”
Rhys shrugs one giant shoulder. Still watching my skirt.
“I’m serious. You might lose business.” A horrible thought occurs to me. “You might have to leave.”
Another shrug, and I feel sick. If he goes, I go. Rhys Evans is the only reason I’m staying here at all, but I can’t tell him that. We’d barely spoken until a few days ago. I’ll sound insane.
His voice is a low rumble next to the crackling fire. “I liked it better when you were begging me to fuck you, cariad.”
Oh, lord. I manage to keep from fanning myself, but it’s a close thing. “Should’ve taken me up on it when you had the chance, huh?”
Rhys grins, white teeth flashing in the dim room. “Maybe so. But we won’t do that while you’re upset. Not the first time. I want you clear-headed. I want you sure.”
I couldn’t be more sure if I tried, but there’s no use in arguing. Besides, with the adrenaline seeping away from my muscles, I’m tired. Groggy and swaying on my feet.
“I’ll show you to the bed.”
Oh. Guess the sofa’s not for me, but what did I expect? As I trip after Rhys through his stone corridors, it makes perfect sense. The blacksmith may be rough and reserved, but he’s also a gentleman. More’s the pity.
“You could spoon me,” I mumble, slurring with exhaustion and climbing under his sheets. Rhys watches me from the bedside, arms folded and face unreadable. “We could cuddle all night. Come on, Rhys Evans. Get in and I’ll count all your big muscles.”
There’s a long pause, and for a second there I think he might take me up on it.
But then: “Another time.” A flicker of a smile. “They won’t go anywhere, Gwen.”
I flop back against the pillows with a sigh. “They’d better not.”
A whiskery kiss brushes against my forehead, and I’ve barely realized it’s happened before the bedroom door clicks shut. I’m left in a pool of lamplight with a thudding pulse and hot cheeks.
Holy hell. It happened after all. The blacksmith kissed me.
How am I supposed to sleep after that?