The Stolen Bride. Susan Paul Spencer

toward him.

      Now that her eyes had become accustomed to the darkness of the stable, she could see that he was naked from the waist up, save for the heavy leather apron which hung from his neck and was loosely tied about his hips. It was much hotter on this side of the building. Intense heat emanated from the forge, fanning over Sofia like a hot wind as she drew nearer. Kayne was covered in sweat, his muscular chest and shoulders glistening with it and long strands of his blond hair sticking to his face and neck because of it.

      He was a magnificent sight, so handsome and strong and fully masculine; a creature of power and beauty, just as his steed Tristan was, and impossible not to admire. Sofia remembered the days she’d spent tending him after the fire, of touching him and feeling the strength in the muscles that lay beneath his flesh. She had wanted so badly to run her hands over him for the sheer pleasure of it, but had refused to give way to such wanton, sinful desires. Kayne would have been repulsed by anything more than the most impersonal touch, and Sofia had already had a difficult time as it was in simply being allowed to tend the stubborn man.

      As if sensing her approach, Kayne glanced up when Sofia was but a few steps away. The rhythm of his hammering came to an abrupt halt, hand midair, and he stared at her for a long, silent moment. Then, with a brief nod that acknowledged her presence, he returned to his work.

      It didn’t take long. A few more strokes with the great hammer and he was done. Straightening, Kayne lifted a partly formed ax-head from the anvil with a pair of tongs, examined it, then carefully placed it in a nearby tub of water. The water sizzled and steamed, and then fell still. Kayne put the tongs and his hammer aside and, without looking at Sofia, walked to a worktable nearby where another basin sat. Dipping his fingers in, he scooped up several handfuls of water and splashed his hair, face and neck, shaking his head until water flew in every direction and coursed in small rivers down his chest. He took up a towel and dried himself. Then, at last, he turned to Sofia.

      “Mistress,” he greeted in his usual solemn manner.

      “Master Kayne.” Sofia gave a slight nod in turn. “I hope I do not disturb you in too important a matter? I meant only to render my thanks for the kindness you showed me some days past.”

      He glanced at the basket on her arm.

      “There is no need, just as I told you.”

      She smiled. “I realize you desire no measure of gratitude, but I wish to thank you even in this small way.” She walked to the table and set the basket upon it, pulling 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