Chapter 14 A Blacksmith’s Understanding of Female Anatomy
A BLACKSMITH’S UNDERSTANDING OF FEMALE ANATOMY
Apollo sat in the sun. The glass above him magnified the sun’s heat and poured it over his bare shoulders like molten gold.
These damn hills were so foggy that anytime the clouds broke over the last four days, he headed here—this barren glass room, this former conservatory.
It was attached to the back of Foggy Hill House, and Sybil never came here.
She preferred quiet dark corners or blazing firesides. She preferred avoiding him.
Perfect. Just what he preferred, as well. Or he would if she was a sensible woman who wasn’t constantly doing herself harm.
Irritation ruffled like bird feathers, but a bolt of sun soothed him. He had forgotten how much he loved the sun. Sybil had asked him what gods he believed in. The truth? This the closest he came to religious fervor.
When he felt as if the sun crept along every inch of his skin—covered and uncovered—he stood and returned to his work.
He should be fireside with Sybil, working on coaxing the flame, on shaping the metal.
The last four days he’d shaped copper and silver into spheres, cubes, cones, and a variety of other mind-numbing shapes.
The apprentices would be surprised when he returned with more skills than they’d ever thought him capable of.
He needed more, though. If he would ever be anything other than an apprentice.
But if he spent any more time near her, he’d look at her lips for the one hundred and sixty-fifth time that day and immediately get a cockstand so hard, he’d be able to shape a horseshoe with it. No hammer necessary.
Tidying the conservatory offered a respite.
His grandfather had called them magnifying rooms and had included one in every residence he owned.
Go there, he used to tell Apollo, when the talent drains you.
It’s like sipping up pure nectar, even at night.
His grandmother’s journal had mentioned the rooms as well, but not as centers of power, not as something to be used.
Conservatories were things to be tended, living creatures you pledged your loyalty to.
Apollo felt both power and duty between these glass walls. He tended the plants and in turn, they… tended him. Between these glass walls, he felt… full.
He checked on General Grimm, whom he’d put in a corner less scorched by sun, and then he checked on the new plants Mrs. Collins had brought him.
Lavender, Linum usitatissimum, primrose, and yes, thyme.
He’d only planted them in pots a few days ago, but already little sprouts poked through. He cupped his hands around them.
“You’re hardy, aren’t you.”
The little sprouts seemed to wiggle.
And a throat cleared loudly behind him.
“Yes, Mrs. Collins?” he asked, spraying water on the sprouts.
“It’s the lady,” she said. “Miss Sybil.”
“What of her?”
“She’s making for the stables.”
He cursed and rubbed his temples. “Thank you, Mrs. Collins.” He shrugged into a shirt and waistcoat, tucked himself in, buttoned himself up, wound a cravat around his throat.
“Her foot looks healed up to me.”
He strode out of the room, the housekeeper hot on his heels. “No way of knowing.” He’d not had his hands on her delicate little foot in four interminable days. He made for the stables, leaving the housekeeper behind at the front door. “Thank you, Mrs. Collins!”
Sybil, her deep-blue riding habit a bolt of brightness that cut through the fog, wasn’t too far ahead of him. A flimsy, flirty hat the same color as her habit perched sideways on her head. It took only a few running steps to catch up, swing her up into his arms, and stride back for the house.
She gasped, flailed, chained her arms about his neck. “Put me down.”
“Not a chance in hell.”
“Then take me to the stables.”
He slowed. “And why should I do that?”
“I need to go to the village. More specifically to the forge there.”
“And why must you do that?”
“I need the blacksmith. I have kept myself busy with Stone’s notes over the last several days, but I’ve hit a wall.
My exploration can no longer be simply intellectual.
I need fire, and I need metal, and I need to make a prototype.
But I cannot do that without tools and materials.
And I cannot obtain materials unless I go into town. ”
He stopped. He’d sent Mrs. Collins after the materials he desired—seeds and dirt and clippings. But he’d not thought to send for hammers and pliers and bellows and whatnot. What a useless alchemist he was, what a worthless teacher.
“I’ll go,” he said. “Alone.”
“No! I want to go. I must go. I’ve been hoping…
well… there might be another like Mrs. Paisley.
And if you go alone, you will not know how to find her.
I’m perfectly capable of riding sidesaddle.
And my foot feels much better now.” She pursed her lips, and the bottom one became plump, ripe for kissing.
“It’s only a little painful. It’s mostly healed, I swear it.
I think, actually, exercise might do it good. ”
“Don’t even try it.” But he reversed course, carrying her back toward the stables. “Have you been taking the healing potion I gave you?”
“Diligently.”
“And the sleeping draft?”
“When I need it.” She lifted her chin and it lifted her breasts as well, which were exquisitely snug against his chest.
Every step he took brushed her body against his, and despite their two very hot and very inadvisable kisses, she didn’t seem to feel as awkward as he did.
She’d accepted it had happened and had moved on.
While he still… Damn. This was his punishment, wasn’t it?
The loss of his title, his holdings, his place in the world, his very soul—that the old king’s punishment.
Sybil had been sent as divine torment by whatever deity knew him best.
Reaching the stables, he set her on her feet. The stables at Foggy Hill were simple and small but well cared for. His grandfather may not have preferred this residence, but he’d not neglected it. He set about saddling the horses.
“I’ll help.” Her hands brushed against his on a buckle.
That touch, even that miniscule touch… Holy Hades. He completed securing the saddles, moving to the second one and letting her finish with the first. She stood before it—a side saddle—expectantly.
He had no choice.
He stepped close. His hands. Her waist. When he lifted her, she rested her palms on his shoulders. She wouldn’t surrender his gaze, and when she was finally safely situated in the saddle, time had slipped away entirely, meaningless thing. There was only the forever blue fields of Sybil’s eyes.
He cleared his throat, mounted his horse, and they took off, riding in silence, and when they reached the low, open structure near the center of the village, Apollo helped her off the horse. There was but a short walk to the building, and he carried her.
“I’m putting you down as soon as we’re inside,” he grumbled.
“I do hope so.”
“You’re my penance, aren’t you? You’ve been put on this earth to drive me mad.”
“I’m not sure I like being someone’s penance.”
He ducked beneath the doorframe and stepped inside, setting her down immediately. She balanced herself and studied the place with a greedy gaze.
At the back of the forge, a large man looked up, his head bald and shiny in the firelight.
His arms were huge, and Apollo, who hadn’t spent much time near a flame in the last four days, rather wished he was suffering the effects of fire energy.
He might boil a tub of water, but at least he’d meet this behemoth in height.
“Whad’ya want?” the man asked, one thick dark brow curling high into his forehead.
Apollo took a step backward, toward the door.
Sybil took a confident step forward. “I am…” She hesitated.
He could see it even from behind her—her back curved in a bit, her shoulders rounding.
She lifted a hand to pick at the stray hairs curling about her nape.
When she looked over her shoulder at him, he was boiling.
No need for metalwork to get him that way.
“Yes?” Apollo drawled. “You are…”
“Perhaps you should speak with him,” she whispered.
“I don’t think so. You’re the one who wants the tools. Not me.”
“You?” The blacksmith shaped like a mountain rounded his anvil, slinging a large hammer over his shoulder.
He came toward Sybil, making her curve farther into herself until he stood towering over her.
She didn’t tremble. But she didn’t lift her goddamn chin either.
The blacksmith sneered. “You want tools? What’r ya goin’ to do with ’em? ”
“Well, erm… give them to my brother?” Her arm flinched slightly, a gesture toward Apollo. “He’s an alchemist.”
The blacksmith rocked back a step and scratched his head as his gaze swung to Apollo. “What kind of tools ya need?” A much friendlier tone now.
The bastard.
He was much bigger than Apollo, but Apollo was likely quicker. He could kick the fellow between the legs, grab Sybil by the waist, and be out of there before the man recovered.
“Hesperus,” Sybil hissed.
Or he could—
“Hesperus.”
Oh, that was him. “Yes?”
She slipped her hands around his upper arms. “Please?” Oh hell, who knew her eyes could get even bigger and bluer.
He turned to the brute. “All the tools. I need them all. I’m just back from my apprenticeship in Germany and setting up my own forge at Foggy Hill House. I need everything.”
But the brute still seemed hesitant. He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at them. “Little girls shouldn’t play with fire. They get hurt.”
Perhaps now Sybil would eat this man alive.
She cleared her throat. “Not me. Him.”
The blacksmith rocked back and forth from toes to heels and back. “You gonna keep her safe, yeah? Keep her out of yer forge?”
“Not at all, my giant man. I intend to give her a hammer and let her loose upon the place.”
“Apo—” She cursed. “Hesperus. Please desist.”