my prayer, all the same, to forget entirely.”
Kayne smoothed the ointment with a delicate touch over each separate wound, making certain to cover them well.
“You’ll not forget. ’Tis an impossibility. But, in time, you may come to know that the fault was none of your own, and this will ease the memory.”
“I do not know that I will ever be able to do so,” she said. “I was headstrong, as I ever am. A grave sin and weakness, just as the priest has so often told me. I brought this affliction upon myself. That is the truth of it, and it cannot be forgiven.”
At this, Kayne ceased what he was doing and set his other hand beneath her chin, lifting her eyes to meet his own.
“It is hardest, often, to accept and forgive our own frailties. But harder still to claim ourselves as prey to another. You are indeed strong of will, Mistress Sofia, but sin or not, such as that does not give another just cause to inflict harm upon you. In this matter, you are fully innocent.”
He returned to his ministrations. Sofia remained silent.
When Kayne was done, he laid a thin, clean square of soft linen over the wounds, then carefully pulled Sofia’s sleeve back up. When she began to lace the top of her surcoat, he rose and busied himself with putting everything away.
“Thank you, Master Kayne,” she said, standing. “I cannot properly repay you for such kindness.”
Kayne closed the lid on the chest and stood full height, turning to look at her.
“There is no need. It was small service in exchange for all you did for me following the fire at Harold Avendale’s.”
“Nay, ’twas far more than that.” Lifting a hand, she gingerly touched the shoulder that he’d cared for, her beautiful face filling with indefinable emotion. He wondered if anyone had ever performed so simple a service for her before. Mistress Sofia was always the first one called upon when others were in need, always so strong and capable, even caring for matters that should have fallen upon her father’s shoulders. But perhaps no one ever thought that she might welcome help once in a great while, too.
“Thank you,” she said again, and abruptly turned and departed.
Kayne watched through the door that fell open upon her leaving as she made her way through the shadowed stable, her skirts swaying gently back and forth as she walked in her usual steadfast and upright way—the lady of Wirth again, and no one seeing her would ever notice that aught was amiss.
Chapter Three
A week passed before Sofia returned to the blacksmith’s shop, striding alone through the village in the late morning with a basket swinging on her arm.
She had dressed with particular care, glad to see the long, red streaks that Sir Griel had placed upon her finally beginning to fade. But she no longer looked at them with the same measure of fear and rage that had possessed her after Sir Griel’s unwelcome visit. Nay, not since that afternoon, when Kayne the Unknown had so kindly—and tenderly—cared for her, had Sofia looked upon the wounds in such a manner. Now, when she saw them, or ran her fingers across the healing scars, she did not even think of Sir Griel, but only of the blacksmith, his handsome face so close to her own as he bent over her shoulder, his warm breath caressing her skin, his white-blond hair falling forward over his brow…and, most of all, the sure, steady touch of his hands on her bare flesh.
Sofia knew herself too well to deny the truth of what she felt. She had begun to fall in love with Kayne the Unknown almost from the start, when she’d cared for him following the fire. She, who had seldom in her life even admired men—any of them—had found herself helplessly, and certainly unwillingly, drawn to the quiet, solemn, soft-spoken blacksmith. A man who was a mystery to one and all, who kept to himself and befriended no one, who was completely unsuitable in every way. Not that it mattered, for she knew that he felt nothing for her, nor for any of the village women who threw themselves so openly in his path. His kindness to her a week past had been only that—kindness, and perhaps a small measure of pity. He seemed to realize, when no one else did, how lonely and difficult her life in Wirth was.
It wasn’t that Sofia was unhappy with the lot that had fallen her way, but she did often wish that her father was possessed of a larger measure of courage, and a greater desire to care for his vassals and the people of the village. Sir Griel, being the most powerful lord for many miles, should have been the one to take a hand in caring for the local citizens, but he cared for no one save himself, least of all his own people or any of the villagers.
Since the age of ten and three, Sofia had been the only one to worry for the people of Wirth. She had gone to the nuns in the abbey and learned all that they knew of medicines and healing, she’d spent countless days beneath the instruction of her father’s steward, learning how the estate was managed, how the crops were grown, how the harvest was prepared and sent to market, and she’d relentlessly harried her tutors, all of whom she’d forced her father to hire, to teach her what a man must know in order to be a good lord. They’d not wanted to impart the knowledge to a mere female, thinking it far better that she should possess only those skills that a lady might require for the managing of a manor house, but Sofia had pressed until they’d all given way. She’d discovered, very quickly, what it was to fight and strive for every bit of knowledge she required.
But for all that she’d learned during the years that had passed between her thirteenth and nineteenth birthdays, Sofia had never known what it was to have soft, womanly feelings…until she’d met Kayne the Unknown.
They were strange and distressing, these emotions he wrought, making Sofia forget who she was and what her responsibilities were, and causing her to dream of things which could never be. She struggled to set such foolishness aside, to harden herself, but it was not so simple a task. Her mind obeyed, but her heart…ah, it was traitorous in every respect, and refused to believe that the impossible could not be overcome.
Still, Sofia was careful not to give it too much free rein, for love, she had found, could be far more painful than sweet. Seeing Kayne, being close to him, was painful indeed. He felt nothing for her beyond the quiet friendship that had grown between them during the weeks that she had cared for him, and even if he had, a woman of her birth and stature would never be allowed to wed a common tradesman, even one so skilled and unusual as Kayne the Unknown.
Sofia heard the sharp, distinct sound of metal striking metal as she neared the smithy, and stopped at the half gate to peer into the darkness toward that part of the building which housed Kayne’s working area. His tall, muscular figure was shadowed against the heat and light of the furnace as he bent over his anvil. Through the shadows, she could clearly see only his blond head moving up and down in rhythm with the hammer blows he dealt.
He was far too occupied to notice Sofia as she slowly and carefully opened the gate and stepped inside. Tristan, from his stall at the other end of the building, whinnied in greeting, and she cast a glance back at the magnificent black stallion. His presence was but the first of so many mysteries surrounding Kayne the Unknown. Only a knight or famous soldier would have need of such a horse, one trained in the ways of war or tournaments. Otherwise, such a beast was of little use—especially for a tradesman who would do far better to own a workhorse. Of course, Kayne the Unknown possessed other fine horses for different purposes, but a destrier like Tristan was expensive to feed and care for, and why a mere blacksmith should desire to spend good money on such an animal largely useless to him was beyond comprehension.
But that led to yet another mystery. Kayne was clearly possessed of greater wealth than he earned—or ever could have earned—at his trade. Sofia had seen for herself the manner of house he possessed, as fine as that of a minor nobleman with its wooden floors, Italian carpets and fireplaces with polished hearths. He had fine furniture, as well, which rivaled that of Ahlgren Manor. Hand-carved chairs and beautiful tables made of gleaming rosewood filled the dwelling’s lower room, and in his bedchamber abovestairs French clothing chests and a beautiful, tall bed with an expensive feather mattress graced the room.
Most