The Trouble with Love (Distinguished Rogues Book 8) by Heather Boyd

Author:Heather Boyd [Boyd, Heather]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Heather Boyd
Published: 2017-11-06T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter Sixteen

The nearest village to Twilit Hill was a warm and wonderful place, nestled at the edge of a large woodland area. Small and somewhat rundown, it reminded Whitney of the place that had become her first home after her parents’ deaths. She’d gone to live with Uncle Willard when she was only nine. He had been a man of few words, but strong and proud and unfailingly honest. A blacksmith by trade, he’d had little idea of what to do with a weeping orphan girl of limited strength except put her to work around the workshop.

She smiled at the sounds emanating from the distant smithy and turned her feet in that direction. She had not minded the work she’d been put to by her uncle. The distraction of being busy had lessened her grief somewhat. Her uncle had given her the task of tallying his accounts when she proved capable later, sweeping floors and keeping his house in order, and even performing some of the delicate work his customers expected of him.

She had become quite adept at pouring molten metal to fashion nails, too, a job that required a very steady hand and patience.

She paused at the doorway, lost in the rhythmic sound of the blacksmith’s strikes on the anvil, and sighed. She missed her uncle very much. He’d been a good man who’d made her feel safe and loved and wanted.

She took a few steps into the workshop, curious to see any differences between her uncle’s old establishment and this one. As far as she could tell, the two places were much the same. Heat blasted from the forge, and an untidy and oddly comforting array of tools lay scattered about. The smell of hot metal strong in the air. She felt instantly at ease and waited to be noticed before venturing farther inside.

The blacksmith was a great hulking fellow, who clearly knew his work well and focused solely on what he was doing. He wore a thick leather jerkin over his clothes, and his forearms bulged with the force of each strike upon the anvil.

She sighed again. Such a man, such a physique.

She jerked her gaze from him as a tiny red-haired woman hurried in through a distant door, two tankards of ale in hand.

The woman froze when their eyes met.

“Hello,” Whitney said in her friendliest tone, eyes darting to the blacksmith, who’d finally noticed her, too. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

The lady set the tankards down and gave the blacksmith a pointed look. He quickly went back to work and ignored Whitney’s interruption.

The woman drew closer, eyes hard as she took in Whitney from head to toe. “Can I help you? Are you lost, my lady?”

“Lost in the past a little bit,” Whitney confessed, smiling as she looked around. “I once spent a lot of time in a place like this.”

The woman’s brows rose in surprise. “Did you now?”

Whitney nodded, aware the woman was scrutinizing her fine clothing quite closely. Nowadays, Whitney did not dress as if she’d spent a year and more stoking fires.

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