The Stolen Bride. Susan Spencer Paul

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СКАЧАТЬ away the cloth that covered the goods inside. “You see? ’Tis only a few sweet cakes and some tarts with pears and apples that our cook made yesterday. Nothing more sinister, I vow.”

      “And this?” He tapped one long finger against the lid of a small pewter jar. Another similarly lidded jar sat beside it.

      “Almond cream,” she said, distracted by the sight of his hand. “And currant jelly.” Those same strong fingers had touched her bare flesh, and so carefully soothed her pain. But on that day she’d been too mired in her own misery to care that his wounds were not yet fully healed. Now, she could plainly see that the burn scars were cracked and reddened from such harsh work.

      “Kayne,” she murmured, reaching out to take his hand when he would have pulled it away. “You shouldn’t be laboring in this harsh manner so soon. Look at your hands. Merciful God.” She bent to take his other hand and lifted it up to examine. “Oh, Kayne,” she said unhappily. “’Tis bleeding here.” She gently touched one of the severest scars. “’Twill never heal properly if you do not take greater care.” Still holding his hands, she looked up at him, but the rest of the tirade set upon her lips died away.

      She hadn’t realized how closely they stood together. So close that their bodies were almost touching. His face was but inches from her own, and his blue eyes were gazing down at her in a manner that made her heart leap within her chest. She had seen that look before on the faces of other men, most especially on Sir Griel’s, but never before had it produced such an effect on her. Instead of disgust, Sofia felt something altogether different, and far more alarming. Flustered, she released his hands and stepped away.

      “Forgive me,” she murmured, busying herself with covering the basket once more. “’Tis none of my concern, though I dislike seeing my handiwork gone to naught.”

      “As do I,” he said. “You seem much improved today. Your wounds are healing?”

      “Yes, thank you, Master Kayne. Very much so. But I have not continued to neglect my wounds as you have done. You chided me for such only a week past.”

      Kayne looked at his hands, flexing and unflexing the fingers. Then he gave a shake of his head and moved back toward the tub where he’d left his work cooling. “I do not have the luxury of being able to coddle myself,” he told her, using his tongs to fish the ax-head from the water, “nor have I ever done so. The scars will be with me all of my life, and both they and I must learn to live with this manner of labor.”

      “You have many scars,” she murmured, watching him thoughtfully. She had seen the number of the wounds he bore while she’d cared for him. “Were you ever a soldier, Master Kayne?”

      He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Aye, I was once. I fought in France for a time.”

      Ah, Sofia thought with satisfaction. A small part of the mystery unfolded. He had been a soldier, and bore a soldier’s scars. But he must have seen many a battle indeed to be so heavily marked.

      “Is that how you come to have Tristan?” she asked, then wished she hadn’t. He was a solitary man, and would not want to be plagued with such questions. Kayne the Unknown had made it clear since he’d come to Wirth that he valued his privacy above all else.

      But he replied readily enough. “Tristan was given to me as a gift by a very great man…a knight of the realm.”

      Sofia was astonished. “’Tis a fine gift, indeed. Did you save his life during battle?”

      He was standing to the side, turned nearly away from her, but Sofia thought that she could see a slight smile on his lips.

      “Nay, he saved mine.” He glanced at her again before lifting the ax-head higher into the firelight to examine it more closely. “The pot I mended for you has not cracked again?” He clearly wished to speak of himself no more.

      “Your mending has held,” she said, “and will, I think, until the pot can no longer be used. ’Tis better than new, I vow.”

      He uttered a laugh. “Nay, that it is not. I am not so skilled a blacksmith.”

      “You are the finest blacksmith in all of Sussex,” she said chidingly, “and well you know it.”

      Now he smiled—truly smiled—at her, looking so handsome and beguiling that Sofia found it necessary to draw in a deep breath.

      “If you insist, Mistress Sofia,” he said. “’Twould be useless to argue with you o’er the matter, even at the risk of embracing false pride, for I’ve well learned that you will have your own way or none at all.”

      Sofia smiled, too. “I have learned much the same of you, Master Kayne. But you’ve naught to fear in the matter of false pride. I have not overstated the matter of your excellence.”

      He had returned to the working table and laid the ax-head upon it, beside an array of smithing tools. “You are very kind,” he said. “I shall pray to meet all your expectations.”

      “Not mine, nay,” she replied at once. “You already labor far too long and hard.” She took a few steps about the large, airy building, admiring its cleanliness and purity of form. How different it was from what such places usually were—dark, foul-smelling and filthy. But both this building and Kayne the Unknown’s dwelling were open, spacious and inviting, always clean and in perfect order. “You are ever here in your smithy. Do you never have a day for rest and pleasure?”

      “I need none.”

      She turned to watch as he deftly prepared the ax-head for further work.

      “You have lived in Wirth for fully a year now, yet you have never attended any of the fairs or celebrations. Tomorrow is Midsummer Day, and there will be much to do.” She took a step toward him, suddenly bold. “Come to the feast tomorrow and be merry for a few hours. Will you?”

      Intent upon his work, he gave a shake of his head. “Nay, I’ve too much to do.”

      “But you’ll have no custom brought to your door tomorrow,” she said persistently. “All the villagers will be there, dancing and feasting. ’Twill be a fine and pleasant day, I vow.”

      “And you will dance around every bonfire once darkness falls, no doubt,” he said, still turned away.

      The words—and what they implied—made Sofia blush hotly. A young woman seeking a husband would be married within a year if she but danced around seven bonfires on a Midsummer Night, or so it was believed. Sofia had ever scorned such tales, but Kayne’s speaking of it seemed to reveal some unspoken truth hidden away in her heart—one that she could not admit, even to herself.

      “Nay,” she said firmly, pushing such foolishness aside. “I have no desire to wed.”

      He put his work down and turned to look at her, surprise written on his handsome face.

      “Never?”

      She shook her head. “My father has too much need of me, as do the people of Wirth.”

      His expression darkened. “You are unjustly burdened, Mistress Sofia. A woman such as you should wed and seek her own happiness.”

      “It is not so easy a thing, Master Kayne,” she said with a weary smile. “But I am happy as I am. And content, СКАЧАТЬ