Page 52 of Ironling
“Brigitt, I’m sorry. I…I’m still learning your language. Your customs. I didn’t know.” It was a sorry excuse, but it was all he had.
Her mouth scrunched to almost nothing, as if she could reclaim the kiss she’d bestowed. She marched up to him, and Hakon braced himself.
Brigitt poked him with a stiff finger as she declared, “You shouldn’t lead a woman on like that!”
Hakon apologized again, and after a few pokes, Brigitt took back the gift and marched away.
He was left appalled in her wake.
Fates, what have I done?
He was constantly looking at lips to better understand people, particularly when the noise around him obscured voices.
He’d stared unabashedly at Lady Aislinn’s lips.
Does she think I want to kiss her?
If she did, she’d done nothing about it. Perhaps he should’ve been relieved with the revelation, but it only stoked his temper and frustration.
If she knew of his feelings, she did nothing to encourage them.
Aislinn shoved the hunk of buttered bread, all she had time for at the midday meal, into her mouth and chewed as she walked. Her morning tasks had taken her longer than expected, which meant she was late for the tailor, which meant she’d be late for everything after that, too.
It was aggravating to watch every task fall behind the previous one, like downed fence posts toppling one after the other, when just one thing went wrong.
Utilizing a shortcut to get back to her apartments, where she was meeting the tailor in her solar, Aislinn rounded the corner of the upper castle gallery to find a small group of maids gathered round. Their heads leaned out between the colonnade, peering down onto the courtyard below.
Aislinn stopped a few steps away, her curiosity invariably itching. She peeked down into the courtyard herself to see what the fuss was.
Oh, my.
Near one of the drains, Hakon had set up an old cask—and in it sat a soaked and unhappy Wülf, soap suds adorning his head. Into the cask Hakon poured great buckets of water, rinsing away the soap.
This seemed the final straw, and the big dog let out a baying cacophony of complaints. Wülf stood as much as he was able and shook his great gray body, sending water everywhere, but mostly onto Hakon.
The blacksmith yelped and stepped away dripping, his linen shirt soaked through and clinging to his wide shoulders. Even from up in the gallery, Aislinn could see the way the green flesh of his great chest undulated and bulged with strength.
Ohh.
Hugging her notebook to her chest, she couldn’t pull her gaze away from the wet blacksmith as he attempted to finish bathing Wülf.
“No, no, no,” he told the beast as Wülf tried to escape from the cask. “You’re filthy. Either you get a bath or I throw you in with the rest of the pigs.”
Wülf yipped and barked in protest as Hakon, apparently seeing the futility in trying to stay dry, leaned down and held the dog with one arm while he scrubbed with his other hand.
His soaked shirt clung to his wide back, and his dark hair had gone glossy with the dampness.
Aislinn watched on, mesmerized by the beauty of him. How his strong shoulders bunched and released, how he easily controlled the wriggling beast of a dog with the utmost gentleness.
Something warm and tingling took root deep in her belly, something she hadn’t felt in a long, long time.
Her lips and breasts ached bittersweetly, and Aislinn touched a finger to her lower lip.
Attraction. Desire.
That’s what this was.
For the halfling blacksmith.
