Susan King - [Celtic Nights 03] (22 page)

She went outside with him. "May I watch you work?"

He shrugged, though he would welcome her presence, and led the way back to the smithy.

Inside, the forge fire burned nicely, its bed limited to a small squarish area, all that he would need for most tasks. Suspended above the left side of the forge was the long horn handle that worked the great bellows behind the chimney. Lachlann pulled downward on the handle to ease out some air to feed the fire. While the heat increased, he looked at the iron latches, thinking about how to repair and improve them.

"You always enjoyed this part of the smithing, I think," Eva said softly beside him.

Lachlann looked up in surprise. He had been so absorbed that he had forgotten she was there for a moment. "What part?"

"Puzzling out the task," she explained. "I remember watching you and Finlay MacKerron. I used to marvel at how well you both knew the craft, and how clever and strong you were to make metal into something as useful as a pothook, or as beautiful as a sword."

He jiggled the hasp and latch. "It just needs some training and cleverness," he said. "And it does not require much strength." He turned to the fire, brushing its edges with the dampened twig broom. Eva was right, he thought. He had always found much satisfaction in the mental tasks of smithing as well as the demanding physical aspects. He could twist a design effortlessly inside his head until he saw it completed and perfect. Then he could duplicate, in hot metal, the image he saw in his head. What she found marvelous seemed only natural and ordinary to him, but he was glad of her interest.

"Is the fire hot enough now?" she asked.

"Nearly so." He pulled the bellows handle again. The flames in the bed filled an area about a handspan square, and blazed brightly and merrily. Though he would do only simple tasks today, he felt excitement and anticipation build in him.

The snap and smoke and bright heart of the fire had always held allure for him. Since childhood, he had respected fire, understood its moods, its gifts, its dangers, and he had always savored the challenge of working with it. For a moment he wondered why he had hesitated to begin smithing again.

Then he remembered. Once again his vision turned to shards of light, independent of the glowing forge. He closed his eyes, now wary of the work. Then he turned his concentration to his task, reminding himself that he was a smith, trained and born to it. Like the fire in the forge, hope and passion had begun to flare in him again, sparked in many ways by Eva. She was a continuing thread of fire in his life and his heart, delicate and powerful.

Picking up a pair of tongs, he pinched the hasp and placed it in the fire. The black iron reddened and began to glow. When it was yellow-red, he pulled it out and rested it on the anvil face. Snatching up a small hammer, he gave the softened metal a few taps, changing its shape as if it were malleable clay.

"It is like magic, what you do," Eva breathed, watching. "You touch iron to fire, and it turns to solid flame."

A sudden hot spiral of lust ran through him at the image her words created in his mind. He glanced at her, nodded.

"Tam Lin," she said, smiling. He cocked his head in wordless question while he worked. "Have you never heard the story? Tam Lin was stolen away by the faery queen, and his lover vowed to save him. He came to her in a dream and told her what to do. 'I will grow in your arms, love, like iron in strong fire,'" Eva sang, her voice low and true. "'But hold me fast, let me not go...'" She stopped.

"Go on," he said, and tapped the metal again, so that sparks flew out. "I have heard it, but forgotten."

"'I am your heart's desire,'" she finished in quiet melody.

Lachlann hit the metal too hard. He looked at her and saw her blushing. "Ah," he murmured. "I do remember that."
Heart's desire indeed,
he thought. Blood simmering, he remained outwardly calm and focused his attention on the work.

Foolish,
he thought, smacking hammer to hot iron, to crave another man's bride, his enemy's betrothed.
Foolish,
he repeated on the next strike, to love her so fiercely, yet always hold back. The final slam sent sparks out and dented the metal deeply.

The piece would need reheating and rehaping now. He turned back to the fire, aware that Eva was watching. How much longer could he endure being near her every day, loving her with every fiber of his being, and yet acting cool toward her—but for the dangerous moments when he lost his hold over desire and longing? How long before he kissed her again and could not stop there?

And what would she do if that happened? His body pulsed as he stabbed the iron into the hot core of the fire, brushing the crumbling ash at its edges.

He had to know what she wanted, and he had to find some peace and resolution to the matter, for her sake as well as his own. Strong as steel he might be, but his own core was molten, and would not be contained for long.

He frowned and made himself focus on the iron, which glowed brightly now. He whipped the piece out of the fire to rest it on the anvil. Then he struck it, turning it with the tongs, teasing it with the hammer until the metal bent to his will and approached the image in his mind.

Repeating the steps until the shape of the hasp was precise, he doused the hot iron in a tub of water beside the anvil, then laid it, dripping and still sizzling, on the anvil.

"There is your new lock," he said.

Eva nodded. "In the old tales, the blacksmiths were said to be magicians. Now I see why. That transformation does truly seem like magic. You make it look easy."

"Sometimes it is. Sometimes not." He spoke curtly.

"I am curious to try it." She glanced up at him.

He lifted a brow, but he knew she could do it. Wordlessly, he reached for a pair of leather gloves and a set of tongs. "Pick up that iron rod and put it into the fire. Go on," he encouraged when she hesitated.

She used the pincers awkwardly at first, picking up a short iron rod from the anvil, nearly dropping it. She slid one end into the crackling bed of fire, wincing at the searing heat.

"Careful," he cautioned. "Let it sit there. Now give the fire some air—just enough. Pull on the handle... a little more muscle in it now. I know you are strong enough for it."

She yanked downward on the horn handle, then released it. The fire expanded like a living thing.

Lachlann stilled her hand on the bellows handle after she pulled it. "Enough. When the iron turns cherry red, it can be worked. 'Cherry red to pigeon blue, the steel is strong, the temper is true,'" he recited. "Finlay taught me that when I was young. Colors are important in smithing. They tell the smith what to do and when to do it."

"The red is turning more golden now," she observed.

"Take it out. Work fast, for it loses heat quickly."

When she transferred the iron rod to the anvil, Lachlann rested his hand over her gloved one on the tongs, helping her grip the red-hot iron. With a small hammer, he rapped at the metal until it bent, and he demonstrated changing the angle on the strike. Then he handed Eva the hammer.

She gave the hot iron metal a timid little knock. Lachlann helped her turn the rod as she hit it. When her strikes grew bolder, he let go. He smiled to himself as he watched, pleased that she had not retreated from the challenge or the danger.

Then she tapped it so vigorously that a small shower of sparks flew out. She shrieked and stepped back, into him, her foot tromping on his.

"Easy," he cautioned. Eva stood within the bowl of his arms, and he kept her there, helping her hold tongs and hammer. Heat filled the space between their bodies. He guided her through more strikes, explaining with gestures and few words.

"It stopped glowing," she said, sounding disappointed.

"Just give it another heating."

With greater confidence, she went through the steps again, heating, tapping, heating again. When next she struck the hot iron, it looped for her, luminous and crooked. Eva laughed in delight, and Lachlann smiled.

"What are you making?" he asked her.

"I had not thought about it! Can I make a hook from this?"

"You can make whatever you want. It follows your will. Be firm, be alert and relaxed, and know your purpose. That, my girl, is the secret of the blacksmith's magic." He winked.

She smiled, even glowed. "Will. That is the secret?"

He nodded. "Fire, iron, and tools can be used by anyone. It is the will, the intent, the imagination that makes the difference." He smiled, realizing that he liked teaching her. The errant thought that he would like to teach her something about desire and loving slipped through his mind.

Eva gave him a measuring glance, and he wondered if she read his wayward thoughts. She turned to heat the iron piece again, and laid it out to strike it. Sparks flew, and tiny stars landed on his forearm.

Lachlann winced and shook off the burning, then dipped his forearm quickly in a bucket of cold water beside the anvil.

"Oh!" Eva said, pausing. "I am sorry!"

"Do not stop," he said. "And watch where you wave your tools when you apologize. Keep going. Heat it and work it."

At last she bent the iron into a passable hook, then doused it in water and held it up, smiling proudly. Lachlann congratulated her, then took out another rod he had already heated and showed Eva how to strike the piece to flatten it into a leaf-shaped pointed blade.

"Simple knives are made this way," he explained.

"Ah," she said. "Then I could make weapons myself."

"Arm your kinsmen with little iron kitchen knives?
Ochan,
that will further your rebellion," he drawled.

She wrinkled her nose. "Show me more. I like this."

"You like it too much." He took the tongs, the half-beaten iron, and the hammer from her. "You would play here all day, and then when would I get my work done, hmm?"

"I will not bother you for long today," she said. "I promised to meet Alpin. But I can help you in here again, if you want. I could help you every day, and be your assistant."

While he tapped heated iron into another hook, he frowned, considering what she said. He preferred working alone, but he could not resist the prospect of more time with Eva—even though he should resist that. "Some of the smithing would go faster with two sets of hands," he ventured. "Nails and horseshoes and that sort of thing."

"Hooks and chains," she agreed. "I could do those."

"You always were a fiery girl," he murmured, and she smiled, cheeks and eyes bright. He grinned, shrugged as if in surrender. "Well, if you want to be my apprentice, you will have to pay close attention. There is much to learn." He slid the rod into the fire for another heating.

She nodded eagerly. "I can learn this. In the past, I think sometimes you and Finlay did not want me around."

"Smiths do not like distractions while they work. We might get burned watching a girl instead of the hot iron," he said wryly, removing the rod from the forge bed.

"Was I a distraction, back then?"

He hesitated. "Sometimes."

"Am I now?"

"Definitely. Now be quiet. Smiths like silence." He tapped the glowing rod, and sparks burst forth. "Do not stand so close," he told her. "Sparks fly like shooting stars when you are around. I think you make them all by yourself."

She laughed and shuffled back. "Why are you using that sort of hammer? What are you doing now?"

"Hush, you," he said. Eva nodded mutely. He worked swiftly and surely to create more hooks, giving them a practical, elegant S shape. The work lacked challenge, but producing any handsome, useful item brought him satisfaction and pleasure.

Being with Eva gave him a great deal of pleasure, too. He glanced at her again. She was most definitely a distraction, with her hair wisping in dark curls, and a rosy sheen on her face. The smithy had grown hot, and sweat dripped down his back, beaded on his brow. He wiped his forearm over his face.

For a moment, a shadow drifted over his vision. Blinking, he narrowed his eyes to correct the flaw, and wondered if he would ever be able to do more than bend hot iron into simple shapes.

In Perth, he had smithed only black iron, had not worked steel. At Balnagovan, memories and dreams and expectations existed. A faery sword awaited him, and Jehanne's own sword was hidden away. He could not escape broken dreams here.

Glancing at Eva as his vision cleared, he savored the sight of her, like a balm for his weary eyes. To him, she had always seemed to glow, fiery and enduring. He smiled ruefully to himself, glad she was here, feeling good in her presence, healing a little. And he wondered if he would ever be able to express his gratitude or his love to her.

He looked down, made another fold in the willing iron, and told himself to think only of his task. The forge burned merry and the iron was hot, demanding quick work and quicker thought. The smithing had begun.

Chapter 16