Chapter 7

7

T he new blacksmith didn't disappoint.

Aislinn settled herself comfortably in the chair he'd obviously set out for her in a tidy corner by the window, with a cushion and everything. She grinned to herself, setting her notebook in her lap as she watched the giant half-orc bustle about his space.

She wasn't entirely sure, but she thought he might be…nervous?

Aislinn didn't know him well, of course, and always struggled to discern the feelings of new people, but the thought that this big man might be a bit flustered with her there in his forge tickled her with amusement.

A cloud of dust and soot puffed a foot in the air when Wülf flopped down beside her to watch the spectacle.

As she waited, Aislinn figured yes, he must be nervous. He knew she was coming, of course. She said she would the previous night, and she'd executed one of her better sneaks through the castle to avoid Brenna. He'd found a chair and cushion for her comfort. Yet he hastened about the smithy gathering everything, his ears that ruddy brownish color at the charmingly pointed tips.

In the bright daylight, she noticed a detail she hadn't before—several small gold rings hung from his ears. One pierced the left lobe with three more studding the shell almost up to the point of his ear. His right only had one. By the shine of them, they were true gold, and she found herself a little entranced by the glimmer.

It was from the sound of him clearing his throat that she finally realized he stood before her. His ears had deepened in color, and he tilted his head to angle the left one toward her.

"My lady?"

"Oh, forgive me, I was just admiring your earrings." She touched her own with a fingertip. "They're lovely. Do they mean something?"

"For orcs, it is a symbol of…" He gestured with his hand. "A new one is earned with every…"

"Achievement?" she offered.

"Yes. Achievement." He cleared his throat. "There is another word I have to learn."

"You've already done remarkably well learning the Eirean tongue. Did you speak it before coming to Dundúran?"

"No. I learned on the journey from Kaldebrak."

"Well, I don't speak orcish, but I'm glad to help you any way I can with Eirean."

His eyes crinkled at the corners. "You are kind, my lady." Reaching for something on a worktable, he presented her with an unfinished set of gardening shears. "Before that, let me see how you like the prototype."

Aislinn gasped in delight as he lowered it into her greedy hands. This is only a prototype? It looked perfect!

"Oh, Hakon, this is marvelous!"

She held the shears up to the light, appreciating the wicked curve of the blades. Although metal, the shears weren't too heavy, and she turned them this way and that to inspect and admire.

His dimple teased along his cheek as he explained the spring he'd made, as well as the catch for safety. He then presented her with options for the handles—smoothed pine and soft leather and tightly wrapped canvas.

"Knowing now how talented you are, I have to choose the pine," she said.

"Of course, my lady. I'll have it ready for you very soon."

"I appreciate it, Hakon, truly. This is so much better—and faster than I ever expected. I hope it didn't interfere with your other work."

"There will always be horseshoes to make," he replied in good humor.

She handed back the shears for the final touches, although reluctantly. Something about holding them, feeling how fine a creation they were, made her greedy.

"I hope you will enjoy using the shears as much as I did making them," he said as he pulled out several pieces of wood for her to choose from. "If you need anything else made, I will help any way I can."

More beautiful words had never been said—at least not to Aislinn.

"I wouldn't want to impose…"

"What else is a blacksmith for?" His smile turned cheeky, that dimple elongating. "All those designs in your notebook are very…"

It was Aislinn's turn to flush. "Messy?"

"Impressive," he decided. "You have so many ideas."

Aislinn shrugged, not knowing what else to do when faced with such praise. "It's just how my mind works, I suppose. If I didn't draw them and get them out, they'd crowd around in my head and leave me no space."

When her explanation was met with silence, she dared look up—to find him staring at her in…she didn't know what, but it had her heart fluttering like bird wings.

"I hadn't considered that." A slow smile spread across his handsome face. "I like it. The drawing frees your mind for more ideas."

"A blessing and a curse," she agreed. "It means there's always a new idea to distract me from the last one."

"A mind always at work."

"Yes." That was exactly right. He put into words how she felt in a way no one had before. With it came a sharp pinprick of truth, though; her mind truly was always whirring, which could be exhausting.

Not right now, though. As she sat speaking with Hakon Green-Fist, she found herself on the edge of her seat, greedy for what he might say next in that brogue accent of his.

After choosing a solid piece of pine, Hakon said, "Let me get a few measurements of your hands, if you wouldn't mind staying another moment?"

Mind? He'd have to throw her out.

"Of course," she said, adjusting her skirts to hide her happiness.

Pulling over a stool, he sat before her with a ball of string. Although the stool sat him a little below her in her chair, his head still rose above hers. The impact of his size was even more acute like this as he leaned forward, attention on unspooling a length of string. He took up most of her vision, and so close, she could smell the heat of the fire on him, the crisp scent of wood and iron just beneath, along with a heavier, deeper tone of male. His scent reminded her of a bonfire, like crackling orange sparks and fragrant wood in conflagration.

When he offered his large green hand, she didn't hesitate to give her own. She bit her lip at the feeling of his skin against hers as he held and moved her hand so, so gently. He touched her with his fingertips, as if she was delicate, precious. The string whispered across her skin as he took the length and width of her hands, a soft, teasing whisper followed by the warm scrape of his calluses.

She watched, mesmerized by the slow, almost sensual movements of his hands. How the tendons flexed under his skin, how the blunted fingertips held the string, how his palms almost burned her with their warmth as they held her hand.

It was a long while before Aislinn realized that the string no longer touched her, that it was only his two hands holding hers. Breath stuttering, she looked up between her lashes to find him looking at her much the same way under the shadow of his heavy brow.

A frisson of…something passed between them. She could only describe it as sparkling and exciting .

Aislinn held her breath, waiting.

For what, she didn't know.

For once, her mind was blessedly quiet as she took in every detail of the handsome blacksmith. The fleck of gold in his right eye. The small scar that bisected his left brow. The few freckles dotting the bridge of his nose. The perfect arch of his upper lip, hiding the tips of those small tusks.

Her lips parted—to say what she didn't know—and she watched his gaze drop to her mouth.

Fates, what am I doing?

Pulling her hand back, Aislinn dropped her gaze to her notebook.

"Thank you, my lady," he said, sitting straight on his stool.

"Of course."

Silence stretched between them as he stood, then Aislinn heard him rummaging about on the worktable.

She thought perhaps she should leave, but reluctance kept her in her seat. A blush still warmed her cheeks, and she still didn't know what she'd been thinking, mooning over him like that, but none of that meant she wanted to leave.

It's too soon to return to schedules and soap cakes.

Hakon came to her rescue once more.

His big hand appeared in her vision again, and she looked up to see him holding two small bars of beeswax.

"I can adjust the handles now, if you'd like. But it gets quite loud."

She took the wax curiously. "Should I warm it up?"

"Yes, between your palms."

Aislinn watched as he deftly worked the beeswax between fingers and palm before sticking it into his ear. Amused, she mimicked his procedure, her nose wrinkling at the unfamiliar feel of something clogging her ear.

"It's strange!" she said, probably too loudly, and shuddered.

He nodded with a smile, though she wasn't sure he actually heard what she said.

When the wax was in place, Hakon began his work.

Aislinn sat back in her chair and watched in awe.

Using tongs, Hakon buried the handled end of the shears into the forge to heat the metal.

"How long must they heat for?" she asked loudly.

He remained facing the forge, as if he hadn't heard her. Aislinn repeated her question and was met again with silence.

The wax must work.

Although, when he pulled the shears from the fire, the hilts of the handles glowing orange, and began to strike them into shape, the clang of metal on metal still pierced her ears. The wax dulled it enough to be bearable, but she still winced with each strike.

Still, it was a joy to watch the work. She always found these things fascinating. How did each step, each part, come together to make a whole? She'd spent many afternoons following behind the craftspeople of Dundúran, learning how they performed their art.

Witnessing the creation of a new thing brought a thrill, and watching Hakon was no different. In fact, it was better.

His hammer was an extension of his arm, muscles flexing and releasing in a perfect rhythm as his other hand turned and positioned the shears. It was a synchronized marvel, and Aislinn enjoyed every moment of it.

If she lingered over his bulging arms and the sheen of sweat gathering at the hollow of his throat, well, she was a mere mortal. She'd challenge anyone not to be arrested by the sight of his thick neck and the tendons that flexed there as he worked.

It ended all too soon. With the handles reformed, he held them up with the tongs and made a few gestures with his other hand. Unsure what they meant, she could only nod.

The shears then went into a barrel of water, steam sizzling through the open windows out into the bailey.

He let them soak for a set time—Aislinn observed him murmuring under his breath—then pulled them out to set on the worktable. When he pulled the wax from his ears, she did, too.

The world seemed overloud without them, her ears ringing with all the little sounds she'd missed.

"How do you know how long to heat them?" she asked. "Forgive me for asking again, I'm just curious."

His ears flushed a deep, ruddy brown again.

"I'm sorry, my lady, I didn't hear…" He cleared his throat. "You heat the metal to the right color."

"Color?" How fascinating!

Seeing her interest, Hakon was good enough to explain how smiths looked for the metal to heat to a certain color to tell when it'd grown hot enough. Sometimes they wanted just a glowing orange, others a yellow so bright it was nearly white. She listened raptly to his explanations as he worked the wooden grips onto the handles.

"And what is it you meant when you…" She repeated the hand gestures he'd made.

"Oh," he chuckled, "the hand-talk. My grandmother and I would use it when my grandfather was hammering."

"The gestures mean certain things?"

"Yes, they mean words. It is helpful when it's difficult to hear over the forge."

"Indeed. I'd love to learn, if you'd teach me."

His brows ticked up in surprise. "Of course, my lady. Perhaps then you can explain to me your many Eirean idioms."

Too soon, he was finished, and from the light pouring into the smithy, Aislinn knew the afternoon waned. There was still so much yet to do, and she was honestly surprised, and pleased, that no one had found her to disturb her afternoon.

Hiding away with the blacksmith was a treat—one she'd never consider with the surly Fearghas.

Thanking him again for humoring her and explaining his craft, Aislinn stood. "I can come back for the shears in a few days, then?" she asked, already counting the hours until she could come again.

"Tomorrow, if you'd like. I can begin on anything else you'd like."

Aislinn glowed with pleasure, grateful for the chance to duck her head when Wülf pressed into her side.

Fates, you'd think I'd never seen a handsome face before, she chided herself as she gave the wolfhound a final, dusty pat.

Not every handsome face can make you everything you've dreamed—and offered to do it, too.

Well, there was that. What else was a woman to do with so many promises?

Although, Aislinn had never been swayed much by promises. She held herself to her own, but the promises of men rarely if ever kept her warm at night.

She was just enjoying his company, was all. She could admire brilliance when she saw it, and all the better for her that he was willing to share his talents and skills.

Still, she couldn't help asking, "Will we see you at dinner tonight? All are welcome to join us."

Aislinn watched that wide throat of his bob as he swallowed. Those brown eyes searched hers as she stood waiting, patting Wülf for something to do with her hands.

"Wülf doesn't like to eat alone, but I'll try to get away."

"Dogs are welcome—" She pointed a warning finger at Wülf, "Good, well-behaved dogs are welcome, too."

"Then we shall join you. Thank you, my lady."

"Good. Well, then, I've taken much of your time. Good day, Hakon."

"Good day, my lady. Oh—!"

Her heart did that funny flutter when she turned to look over her shoulder at his exclamation. He closed the distance between them again, pulling something small from his pocket.

"I finished this and thought…"

Curious, she held her hand out to receive the bauble. She smiled in delight to find, "The rose? You finished already?"

"I smoothed it for you and thought you…might like it."

She did indeed, running her thumb over the smooth, waxed surface. Always sensitive to textures, from her food to her fabrics, Aislinn's spirit hummed with satisfaction at the smooth undulations of the wood petals, warm from his pocket.

"I love it," she said, "thank you. Here barely two weeks and you're already spoiling me."

The words were out before she could think, and heat pricked her cheeks.

He had no mercy on her, that deep voice rumbling, "It pleases me to please you, my lady."

Aislinn couldn't quite meet his gaze, eyes fixing on that infernally masculine throat as she croaked, "Thank you, Hakon," and fled.

She slipped the whittled rose into her pocket, thumb running across the petals. The movement soothed her racing heart a little, though she didn't catch her breath until she'd made it to the safety of her study.

Shutting the door behind her, Aislinn had to laugh at herself.

What am I doing? Flirting with the handsome new blacksmith wouldn't accomplish anything.

But oh, fates, was it fun .