Susan King - [Celtic Nights 03] (23 page)

Waking from the strange peace of a wonderful dream, Eva stirred and opened her eyes. The warmth and joy of the dream lingered: Lachlann stood at a blazing forge, his body bronzed and hard-hewn in the amber light. Eva watched while he shaped a shining sword; somehow she knew it was a faery blade. He handed it to her, smiling, and then he kissed her, deep and thorough and tender, until her body melted inside and she clung to him, yearning for more as he touched her fervently with hot, gentle hands.

Outside, the wind howled and the rafters creaked. The stones that held the thatching, slung on ropes, thunked against the exterior walls. Eva turned restlessly in the shelter of Lachlann's bed and thought of him sleeping in the smithy on his bed of heather. After that passionate dream, she ached inside, a hollow of loneliness. Rising from the bed, she dressed in a plain woolen gown, pulled on her
arisaid,
and drew on her shoes. Going to the door, she opened it on a windy, dove gray morning.

Light showed already in the smithy windows, and the hammer rang like a muffled bell. Perhaps, she thought, that deep, driving sound had stirred her dream of him.

After she had tended to the necessary chores and had made some fresh, hot oatcakes, she wrapped a few in a cloth and crossed the meadow. A brisk wind whipped at her hair and her
arisaid,
and as she came closer to the smithy, the steady clang of the hammer continued. She knocked firmly on the door and opened it, stepping into the dim interior.

Lachlann stood at the forge, wearing a plaid and a linen shirt, his dark hair gleaming in the firelight. He nodded to her and turned back to his work.

She closed the door and found a dim interior, for the windows were shuttered against the cold air. The lingering smell of charcoal and metal was strong, and flames burned brightly on the forge bed. Eva moved toward it, lured by that cheery warmth.

"Have you come to help out this morning?" Lachlann asked, smiling briefly. "After I finish a few things here, I will shoe the horses."

"I would not be much help with the horses," she said, for she had seen that process often and did not relish standing behind a horse and coaxing it to put up its hoof for her to pound nails into it. "I brought you something to eat," she said, leaving the oatcakes on a table that held tools. He nodded. "And I came to ask if you would repair this for me." She unpinned the silver brooch at her shoulder. "I know you are not a silversmith—"

"But I did promise to fix this," he said, his glance meeting hers briefly. He took the circlet from her and wiggled the clasp and the broken loop. Then he set a thin poker in the fire until it reddened, and carefully touched the red-hot point to the broken piece, using small tongs to meld the softened silver. After dipping the silver into the water, he laid it on the anvil.

"Careful now," Lachlann said, as Eva reached for the brooch. She winced when she touched the hot metal and snatched her fingers back.

"The first lesson any smith learns," Lachlann said, "is that metal that looks cool can still be very hot even after it has' been doused in water. Always test a piece before you touch it."

Eva nodded, and tapped the brooch with a tentative fingertip. Lachlann picked it up. Moving closer, he fastened the brooch in her plaid, his knuckles brushing her collarbone. He stood so close that she felt his warmth, and felt something spin deep inside of her.

"'There," he murmured. "I am sorry it took so long to fulfill the promise." His thumb smoothed over the silver circlet, and his fingers brushed her shoulder, rousing shivers in her. "Before I ever went to France, I expected you to bring the brooch to me for repair," he said. "I waited for you, but you never came. And I did not see you when I went to Innisfarna to deliver the weapons I owed your father."

She felt pulled into his brilliant blue gaze. "You waited for me to come to the smithy?"

He smiled a little. "I would have fixed the brooch for you, had you come then."

"Oh," she said. "I—I did not think you wanted to see me after..."

"Of course I did," he murmured, then stepped back and turned toward the forge. "I have work to do. When these tasks are done, today or tomorrow, I am going to Glen Brae."

"Alpin will row you over to see Mairi whenever you like."

"This time I will ride. I want to find the charcoal burner," he said, his back to her. "I need to buy some quality goods for the forge, and I have some questions to ask the man." As he spoke, he slid an iron rod into the fire and pulled on a pair of leather gloves.

Eva felt a pang of sympathy, knowing he meant to ask about the deaths of the parents he had never known. "I will go with you if you like."

He paused. "I must do this alone, Eva."

She nodded, and stepped closer. "Can I help you now?"

"You can watch the iron," he said, and handed her the tongs and a twig brash. While she prodded the ashes, he collected other tools and laid them on the anvil. He slipped a chisel vertically into a hole in the anvil face, so that the point protruded upward.

"The rod is starting to glow," she said, and Lachlann reached past her to pluck the iron out with tongs and set it over the chisel edge. Swift strikes with the hammer divided the luminous rod into sections. Deft and quick, he shaped each piece with tongs and hammer to form links.

"This will be your new pot chain," he said, and welded the links onto a partial chain that he had already begun.

Intrigued by his sureness and speed, Eva watched, listening to the hard rhythm of the hammer. Soon she realized that the smithy had become very warm, with the door and windows shut against the chill. Sweat beaded on Lachlann's brow, and he wiped it with his forearm as he built the sturdy black chain.

He slid more rods into the fire, then paused to slide his plaid off his left shoulder and tug off his shirt, tossing it onto a nearby workbench. He glanced at Eva.

"This place can get hot as summer, even on the coldest days," he said, wiping his damp brow again.

She blinked, nodded, as he resumed work. The muscles of his chest and arms rippled, rounded and defined, beneath smooth, gleaming skin. Her breath quickened as she remembered the unforgettable vision of Lachlann forging a faery blade, his body hewn and bronzed, his eyes like piercing blue flames. Now he was simply an earthly man doing ordinary labor, yet he was utterly compelling to watch.

Desire raced hot and fast through her as she remembered the feel of those broad arms, the delicious touch of his mouth upon hers. Aware that she wanted him keenly, body and soul, she wrapped her
arisaid
more tightly around her as if to smother her feelings.

The hammer chimed and thunked on the anvil, the rhythm driving down into her body. Eva stepped back, breathing quickly, and when sparks showered outward, she turned away. Lifting his discarded shirt, she folded its inviting scent against her, then hung it on a pegged rack beside sets of tongs. Strolling around the smithy, she trailed her hand over the tools, over the table surfaces. She glanced at Lachlann, who seemed completely absorbed in his work.

In the far corner of the room she saw the heather bed, and imagined Lachlann asleep there. She wondered if he ever dreamed of her, as she did of him, and she sighed.

In a corner, she saw several pieces of iron—horseshoes, rods, and a broken plough. Crossing the room, she picked up one of the horseshoes curiously. "What will you do with all this iron?" she asked.

"Melt it down to make things," he answered succinctly, and smiled at her, quick and wry. "Eva, fetch me one of the vials of oil from that chest by the wall if you will. This chain will need some polishing."

She went to the wooden chest, opened it and found a vial, then closed the lid. Something glittered overhead, and she glanced up. On the ledge formed at the top of the thick stone wall, below the rafters, she saw a long wrapped bundle of linen.

Through its open folds, she saw the yellow gleam of gold or brass. Reaching up, she meant to close the cloth, thinking that Lachlann would want this fine object better protected from the slightly smoky air. The package tumbled from the ledge, and she caught it as the cloth parted further.

Eva gasped, for she held a sword hilt of wrapped leather, with a disc pommel of shining brass and a gracefully curved cross guard of steel, trimmed in brass. The blade was broken at a sharp angle a little below the cross guard; the upper, pointed end of the blade lay stacked beneath the lower blade. Engraved lilies, chased in gold, glittered on both bright remnants.

"Give that to me," Lachlann said gruffly. She turned to see him standing behind her. So absorbed in discovering the sword, she had not heard him approach.

"This is beautiful," she said. "A common, lightweight thrusting sword, but with exceptional crafting. Is it one of the pieces you made before you left Balnagovan?" She continued to look at it. "How unfortunate that it cracked! There must have been a weak spot in the blade. Surely not a MacKerron blade, then," she said with a smile.

He looked grim. "A friend in France owned it, and I brought it back. I promised to repair it. Give it to me." He held out his hand firmly, beckoned.

Puzzled by his tone and attitude, she frowned, but handed it back to him. He began to wrap it carefully.

"I did not think you would wield such a sword yourself. Likely you prefer something more substantial for your grip and your strength, perhaps a two-handed double-edged longsword," she said.

He lifted a brow. "How do you know so much about swords?"

Eva started to answer, then remembered that Lachlann did not know about her sword lessons with Alpin. He was already sour on the topic of weapons for her kinsmen, so she could hardly tell him that, nor could she mention that she needed a good sword herself, something as light and fine as the one he held.

"I know some," she admitted, shrugging. "Enough to see that this one is a beautiful blade, even if it is not your own make. You and Finlay did not use that style of pommel, with a sunken center, and most of your cross pieces were sloped but straight, ending in tiny quatrefoils." Eva opened the linen carefully to point at the blade decoration. "And this one has flowers engraved along the fuller. You and Finlay always cut tiny hearts just under the guard. A heart, as a pun on MacKerron and
mo caran,"
she added.

"Mo caran,"
he murmured, looking at her. "My beloved."

A shiver rippled through her as she returned his gaze, but she could not reply. For an instant, she felt her longing overflow. She glanced away, as he did.

He touched the bare blade gently, and pulled back the cloth to reveal the full sword in two pieces. "The lilies are called fleurs-de-lis in French," he said. "They are a symbol of the French royal house."

"Did a French royal own this sword?" she asked in awe. She traced a finger over the delicate lilies along the fuller, the channel in the center of the blade that lightened the weight of the steel for added flexibility and control.

"Not a royal," he said. "An angel held this one."

She stilled her fingers on the smooth steel to look at him, puzzled. Then, realizing what he meant, she gasped. "Lachlann, is this the Maid's own sword? The legendary blade of Saint Catherine?"

He frowned. "How did you hear about that?"

"My cousins told me about it," she said. "Parian and William told me something of Jehanne the Maid, and they mentioned that she carried a sword with golden flowers along the blade, of shining brass and steel. The sword was a special one, blessed and magical—given to the Maid by Saint Catherine herself."

"Not magical, but extraordinary in its way." His blue eyes darkened, and Eva saw sadness reflected there. "Jehanne learned of the sword in a dream and sent men to a deserted chapel to find it. It was there, beneath the floorstones. I examined the weapon myself when they brought it to her. She asked me to make a scabbard of leather for it—of plain leather, to suit a soldier," he went on in a husky tone. "She wanted a sturdy sheath, not the jeweled thing the king had given her. It was her way."

She nodded her understanding. "My cousins said the sword broke, and then vanished when her campaign failed."

"She broke it in a temper," Lachlann said. "She struck it downward while arguing a plan of strategy with some of us—it hit a rock and cracked. She had a fierce temper," he added, smiling a little, wan and quick. He lifted the hilt out of the cloth. The light from the forge glinted red on the mirror-bright blade as he turned it.

"Promise me," he said, "that you will never tell anyone that you have seen this."

"I will never tell," she whispered, watching him.

"Her enemies are still about," he said. "The English—the Goddams, she called them, for the swearing they did—would do anything to have this, if they knew it still existed. They fear it has some magic. Whatever it had... is gone now."

Seeing the heartbreak in his expression as he looked at Jehanne's sword, she caught her breath. "Then you must keep it well hidden and protect it."

He nodded. "They asked her about the sword at her trial. She refused to reveal its whereabouts to her judges, though she knew that I had it at the time."

"She did not want to endanger you." Somehow she felt that was true. Her awe and admiration for the Maid had always been great, but now it deepened with gratitude, for Jehanne had protected Lachlann. "Were you there, where she..."