Page 23 of The Viscount, the Blacksmith, and the Lady
She laughed. “I suppose becoming a baker was my destiny.” Her gaze shifted from the skies to meet his eyes.
“Perhaps. But you were always meant for more than just kneading dough, Xenia.” His fingertips brushed down her body, a calm worship rather than a seduction.
A comfortable silence fell between them, and she listened to his steady breathing and the occasional bird calling from the trees. Her thoughts continued to wander through the years. “You know, with you and Owen, there’s always been a difference. Your personalities are so unique.”
She felt the muscles of his belly tighten. Was that because of her mentioning Owen’s name? It couldn’t be. Simon had suggested only minutes ago they might have Owen with them soon. No, he hadn’t said perhaps we’ll, he said next time we will...
Men. She would never understand them. “Should I not talk about Owen when we’re naked?” She kept the sarcasm from her tone, leaving it to him to remember his own words.
“Owen is our friend,” he replied tersely.
“And so much more to both of us, of late. Our friendship is... complicated, isn’t it?”
“Complicated,” Simon echoed. He stared at the clouds, his brow furled and lips thin.
Eventually, he captured her hand in his. “Xenia, know this—regardless of your feelings for Owen, my affection for you is unwavering. You must never doubt that.”
Her heart nearly broke at the emotion in his eyes. She cupped a hand to his cheek and stretched up to kiss him. “I feel the same way, Simon. You will always be in my heart.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Sweat traced down Owen’s brow, dripping onto his shirt as he hammered Farmer Morgan’s plow blade on the anvil, repairing the damage created when the blade struck a large rock submerged in a field. The heat of the smithy wrapped around him like a second skin, and the muscles in his arms thrummed with a tiring rhythm born of the extra work he’d taken on. His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten yet, and it was already midafternoon.
“Owen,” Simon called from the doorway. “I must speak with you.”
“Can’t it wait? I’ve got to finish this before nightfall,” Owen shouted back without looking up, sensing the urgency in his friend’s tone, but too ensnared in his task to afford distraction.
“No, this is urgent.” Simon came closer while avoiding the flying tool in Owen’s hand. He was not one for idle visits, especially not to the sweltering heat of the smithy.
Owen lifted his gaze, about to rebuke him with a reminder that dawn would come soon enough for all matters, when the door creaked open once more, halting the words on his tongue.
Zee walked in carrying a basket likely filled with the fresh bread he’d ordered.
“Good day to you both,” she sang out. Her eyes sparkled with mischief as they landed on Owen’s sweat-slicked form and then flicked to Simon’s more composed demeanor. “I’m delighted to find you both here, as there’s a matter we’ve yet to settle.”
Owen exhaled sharply. “Zee, this really isn’t a good time...” His voice trailed off, the admonishment losing steam as he watched her approach, shifting her hips as she walked, well aware of the effect she had on him. The heat of the forge no longer accounted for all the warmth spreading through his veins.
She approached Simon first, offering him a scone with a coy tilt of her head, before turning toward Owen, the basket extended in silent offer. Desperate to maintain focus, he squeezed the handle of his hammer and swung it gently at his side. Yet, as she neared, the scent of cinnamon and yeast teased his senses.
“Surely you have time for a quick bite, Owen. Mama threw in some leftover scones.”
Despite himself, he fisted the edge of his leather apron, tugging at it as if to physically hold himself back from succumbing to the distraction she presented. “Work,” he grunted, the word clumsy and inadequate against the backdrop of her laughter.
“Always work,” Zee sighed. “And what about after? Will there be time then or will you be so tired you’ll go straight to bed?”
He swallowed, the conflict raging within him. His arms tensed, the hammer he held momentarily forgotten as Zee’s words hung in the sweltering air. Heat flushed his skin not solely from the furnace’s blaze, but from the growing irritation within him. His patience frayed like the worn leather of his apron.
“Enough!” The word burst from him, loud and sharp, echoing off the stone walls. He slammed the hammer down upon the anvil, sending a shower of sparks flying toward the dirt floor. “You think I’m free to go gallivanting about at your pleasure?”
Simon straightened, his eyes widening slightly at the harsh tone that was so unlike him.
Owen continued, his voice thick with exhaustion, “Both of you—you come here with your... your jests and your sweet confections, and neither of you understand the workload on my shoulders.” His chest heaved, the fatigue from repairing Farmer Morgan’s plow blade mingling with the hunger gnawing at his belly.
Taken aback by the outburst, Zee froze, her playful facade crumbling, the basket of baked goods hanging from her limp arm. She hesitated, then placed it gently on the worn wooden workbench, the baked treats untouched.
“I’m sorry, Owen,” she said with a soft sincerity that stung him more than any rebuke. Her eyes dimmed, clouded by hurt, and the dawning realization that her lighthearted visit had been an unwelcome interruption.
“Truly, I didn’t mean to—” Her words trailed away as she turned to leave, her drooping posture conveying a profound disappointment that settled uneasily in the pit of Owen’s stomach. Her footsteps were quiet against the stone, yet thunderously loud in the silence left in the wake of his anger.