Will the blacksmith was built like an ox, but his heart was a swooning minstrel’s when it came to Lady Eleanor, the baron’s daughter. Her gowns hugged curves that made Will’s forge seem cold. She’d visit his shop, pretending to inspect horseshoes, her hazel eyes sparking like embers. “Fine work, Will,” she’d say, her voice honeyed sin, and he’d drop his hammer, cursing his clumsy paws.
One misty morning, she lingered, tracing a blade he’d forged. “Could you teach me, Will?” she asked, stepping so close her sleeve brushed his apron. Teach? He’d sooner teach a pig to dance. But her scent—lavender and danger—scrambled his wits. “Aye, milady,” he grunted, handing her tongs. His calloused hand guided hers, and her gasp sent heat roaring through him. He imagined kissing her in the hayloft, damn the baron’s wrath.
Then the stableboy burst in, shouting about a loose mare. Will tripped over an anvil, crashing into a pile of iron. Eleanor stifled a laugh, her lips a forbidden fruit. “Another time, blacksmith,” she said, gliding out, her hips a ballad of torment. Will pounded a horseshoe flat, muttering about his idiocy. The village priest would call it sin; Will called it torture.
That night, he carved her initials into a scrap of iron, hiding it behind his bellows. If the baron found out, Will’s head would roll. But when Eleanor returned the next week, smiling like a secret, he knew he’d risk the gallows for one more lesson—and maybe a stolen kiss.