Page 46 of Barely a Woman
Steadman lengthened his stride as if to leave the dissonance of Morgan Brady behind, but she managed to keep pace. He had nearly kissed her. Again. This time, however, there was no urgent rescue required, no desperate plan to execute. Conflicting rationales crashed together in his swirling thoughts to form a jumble of perplexing paradoxes. She was his investigative partner. She was a woman. She was his friend. He had no female friends. She claimed to be plain. But she was not. What some might describe as “handsome” was more to him a beauty of classical proportions. She was Venus de Milo. Da Vinci’s La Scapigliata. Titian’s La Bella. Her features were timeless, carved in marble yet warm with life. That she was clearly unaware of her rare beauty, even skeptical of its possibility, galled him. What despicable fools had convinced her that she was anything other than spectacular?
Their arrival at the smithy saved him from a breakdown of his cognition. He glanced back to find Morgan doggedly tracing his steps, her head down and skirt hitched to avoid the mud of the road. He followed the ringing sound of iron-on-iron emanating from beneath an open-walled smithy. A young blacksmith, no more than five-and-twenty, held a horseshoe over a blackened anvil while a teen apprentice struck it repeatedly at the blacksmith’s direction. A second young apprentice energetically pumped the bellows to fire the forge.They appeared to ignore the visitors until the smithy called a halt, plunged the horseshoe into a tub of water, and tossed it onto a pile of other shoes. As one, the three young men folded their arms to eye Steadman and Morgan with suspicion. Steadman leaned near Morgan’s ear.
“Time to put those charms to work.”
She rolled her eyes with a sigh, donned a warm smile, and approached the blacksmith. “Good morning, sir.”
“Ma’am.”
“I see you have acquired quite a collection of horseshoes. What else do you forge?”
He stood tall and mopped his brow, though his eyes remained narrowed. “Most anything. Hinges, handles, buckles. Fire grates, decorative filigree, fence rails. Hammers, plowshares, axes. You name it, we make it.”
She stepped nearer to examine the forge. “An elaborate device. I assume you must balance the fuel, air, and water appropriately for the job at hand. Is that right?”
The apprentices raised their brows at each other and the blacksmith’s eyes brightened. “Why, yes.”
“Can you show me?”
In a voice swelling with pride, the smith set about describing the inner workings of the forge. She asked clarifying questions about every component. As he watched the scene unfold, Steadman applauded her tactic. Rather than flirting, she had engaged the man’s pride in his work with a show of interest. However, the more questions she asked, the more he became convinced that her interest was no act. It was just Morgan being Morgan—curious, respectful, genuine. He found it all disturbingly appealing.
“You can ask my associate, Worm.”
The mention of his ridiculous alias woke Steadman from his mental wanderings. “Ask me what?”
“If you wish to commission a work,” said the blacksmith. His question was hopeful but prepared for bad news.
“Has your business suffered from the crop failures?”
“Indeed, it has. Farmers are delaying repairs and shoeing. Folks are hoarding what they have rather than commissioning new candlesticks.”
“I am sorry to hear of your duress.”
“So, we wonder, then,” said Morgan, “If you might be interested in earning some extra coin.”
The faces of smith and his apprentices brightened further. “We would,” said the blacksmith. “What is the task?”
“Simple, really, for men of your physical stature.” Morgan’s warm smile threatened to melt the men, Steadman included. She explained how they would move bags of grain from barn to wagon to barn, with a short ride in between. The smiths agreed enthusiastically, clearly taken with Morgan. Steadman could not help but notice the appeal. She was forthright yet gentle, enthusiastic yet restrained, engaging yet authentic. He shook his head with wonder.
“Tomorrow night, then,” said Steadman as they bid the smiths farewell. “We will assemble a pair of rigs and meet you here at dusk.”
“And find four or five more strapping lads to help,” Morgan added, “They will be paid equally.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” the men said in unison, bowing to her as if she were nobility. Steadman smiled at the glaring irony. In her own way, she was far more noble than those who claimed titles.They had left the smithy well behind when he finally mustered the gumption to tease her.
“As I predicted, those lads were utterly bewitched by your feminine charms.”
She cut him a skeptical glance. “I think not. In fact, I believe they were rather taken with your legs.”
“My legs?”
“Do not pretend you are not proud of your thighs, what with the tightness of your breeches. I wonder how you manage to wedge into them each morning.”
He grew a sly smile, pleased with Morgan’s feisty response. “I could show you if you like. Here in the road, if it suits you.”
Her cheeks reddened and she looked away. “Oh, I think not. I would not wish anyone to take you for a corpse and proceed to bury you.”
“Why would anyone take me for a corpse?”
