Blacksmith Brides Page 3

  He sighed and returned the skillet to the table before grabbing a new length of iron to work.

  “Pardon me.”

  Jerked out of his thoughts, Alexander spun around and looked into the eyes that had haunted his dreams this past week.

  “I did not mean to startle you.” Errant locks of hair escaped like flames from under her straw hat.

  “Mistress McCracken.” Alexander swallowed a gulp. He put down the iron rod and scrubbed his hands on his leather apron. “I have yet to finished your order.”

  A slight smile tugged at her lips and danced in her eyes. “’Tis only that I was riding by. I thought to stop and inquire, but did not mean to seem hasty regarding my order.”

  “You ride?” Of course she did. Wasn’t she standing here in front of him wearing a fetching green riding habit? Did she not hold a riding crop in her gloved hands? Could he think of nothing intelligent to say?

  “Of course.” Her smile broadened. “’Tis one of my favorite occupations.”

  “’Tis one of mine as well.”

  She lowered her lashes and fiddled with the crop in her hands. “Seems we have something in common then.”

  “Aye.” Alexander wanted to say something witty, something clever, something to bring her eyes back to where he could drown in them. His tongue clung to the roof of his mouth. The moment stretched to the breaking point.

  “I should not have disturbed you, Mr. Ogilvie. I’m sure you have many important matters to attend to this day.”

  “Nay. That is, I do, but you are not a disturbance, mistress.” But she was. In all the best ways.

  Her eyes met his again, the glint in them hinting at humor. Was she laughing at him?

  “And yet you frown,” she said.

  Did he? He rubbed at his forehead.

  “I’m looking for an herbalist my mother heard had opened a shop on South Street. Do you happen to know where it is located?”

  “Aye. Madam Richardson’s shop. She is two blocks down on the right. A large clump of dried weeds hangs beside her door.”

  Her sweet laughter filled the smithy, lightening the dingy day. “I’m sure Madam Richardson would not appreciate you referring to her herbs as dried weeds.”

  Heat drifted from under his collar. “Nay. I daresay she wouldn’t.”

  “Then we shall not tell her. ’Twill be our secret.”

  They shared a secret. Mistress Meg McCracken was standing in his father’s smithy talking to him and sharing a secret. He tapped his fingers on the anvil. It felt real. This wasn’t a dream. “I suppose those weeds are good for something.”

  “Most herbs have many useful purposes. I plan to put together packets for my brothers to take with them …”

  “When they go to war.”

  “Aye.” She dropped her eyes for a moment.

  “You know herbs then?”

  “’Tis an interest of mine. I like concocting potions and poultices to help when someone is ill.”

  “A handy thing to know.” Especially on the frontier. Not that she’d ever go there, of course. But a man could dream.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance.

  “I best be on my way. Thank you for the directions.”

  “You are most welcome, mistress.”

  “I shall return another day for my order. ’Twill be ready …?”

  Alexander stared at her for a moment while her unfinished question hung in the air between them. “Oh.” He looked at the forge and then back at her. “Week’s end, most likely. If the tanner doesn’t crack another kettle beforehand.”

  “Until week’s end then.” She blinked those amazing eyes at him and left.

  “Aye.” Alexander stood as if he’d grown roots. They shared a secret. Now if he could just remember what it was.

  Had she truly flirted with the blacksmith? She’d never flirted with anyone before. Never wanted to, even if her brothers would have allowed it. What was it about Alexander Ogilvie that prompted her to do so? He was a fine figure of a man, there was no denying that. And those tawny eyes of his …

  Meg kicked Gulliver into a trot and let the breeze cool her cheeks. She fought a wild urge to return to the smithy and try flirting again. She was a full two blocks past the herbalist before she remembered it and reined Gulliver around.

  The steady gelding tossed his head as if to remind her of the thunder and his dry stall in the direction they had been going. A jagged spear of lightning split the sky to the west.

  “You are right, Gulliver. We shall visit Madam Richardson another day.” She reined the horse back around and let him lengthen his stride. She could return to the herbalist’s tomorrow. And ride past the smithy again. Nay. That wouldn’t do. It was one thing to offer a slightly flirtatious smile. It was quite another to return the next day. What would Mr. Ogilvie think of her?

  What did she want him to think of her?

  The breadth of his shoulders. The tawny eyes that almost matched his hair. The cleft in his chin. The timbre of his voice. What little she’d heard of it. He was a man of few words, that was certain. But was he a man who would stand up to her brothers?

  Her shoulders sagged. He was a blacksmith, not the type of “fine young man” her father spoke of. Men who attended dances and worked at jobs behind large desks in paneled offices. He was a blacksmith with dirt on his forehead.

  She smothered a giggle with her gloved hand. When he’d rubbed his brow, he’d left a smudge. What would he have said if she’d mentioned it to him? Would it have flustered him? She thought so.

  For some reason that pleased her.

  Chapter 4

  Alexander suppressed a grimace when William thumped the oak table, rattling their mam’s sturdy crockery dishes.

  “Are you aware that Alexander refuses to fight?” William didn’t shout, but his voice filled the room. “Is our family to be branded with a coward? Or worse, a Loyalist?”

  “Enough.” Da leaned back in his chair, the only one at the table. He tamped a pinch of tobacco into his pipe. Mam brought him a taper from the hearth, and he sucked on the pipe until it lit. She returned to her rocking chair on the other side of the cottage’s main room, next to Alexander’s two sisters who were working on a pile of mending. He and his brothers sat on wide benches that boxed in three sides of the table.

  Alexander fought the urge to thump his fist on something, possibly his brother’s head. Instead, he relaxed each muscle in his body, one by one, as he’d learned to do when sitting in the forest waiting for deer to come to the stream for a drink. Tension clouded the mind and increased the likelihood of making a bad shot, or a bad decision.

  “Alexander is no coward, nor a Loyalist.” Da took another draw on the pipe, releasing a breath filled with its pungent smoke. “He has expressed his desire to head west, which is nothing new. Has he not said as much for the past year and a half?”

  “But the war. We shall need every able-bodied man to whip the British.” William’s normally ruddy complexion practically glowed in the candlelight. “To turn and run now—”

  “Hold on.” Thomas grabbed William’s forearm. “He is not running away.” Thomas turned to him. “Are you lad?”

  Alexander looked from one brother to the other. Thomas shared his blond hair and easy manner, so at odds with William’s feisty temper and quick wit. Neither agreed with his decision, but Thomas would always be fair.

  “’Tis like Da said, I have been planning to leave in the spring. I do not see that the war changes that.”

  “So you shall leave it to the rest of us who are willing to fight, securing your freedom, while you gallivant off into the wilderness?” William dragged his hand through his russet hair, leaving ends spiked up along the way.

  “Aye. If that is how you want to interpret it.” He squelched the urge to argue with William. It would do no good. His brother was like a snapping turtle on the end of a stick. Nothing would make him let go of his beliefs.

  “And how would you interpret it?”


  “I want to be one of the first to open the frontier. I want my shot at being a landowner. What does it matter to me if the hinges I make are sold to the Crown or a Patriot? It changes nothing for me.”

  Da raised his hand. “But think on this, son. The war will need blacksmiths. Can you not stay and work the forge? Can you not postpone your adventuring until the war is over?”

  Alexander let his chin drop to his chest for a moment before meeting Da’s steady gaze. “I think not.” He ignored William’s snort. “You have said yourself that this war could drag on for years. Most do. Other men are already pushing west, and they are also in need of blacksmiths. I want to be in the company of those who go first.”

  “Is it so important to be the first?” Thomas’s fair brows drew down into a straight line. As the firstborn, it was unlikely he’d understand.

  “Aye. For me ’tis.”

  Da raised his hand again. “Before you speak, William, remember that you are not the youngest son. I understand some of what Alexander is feeling. As the youngest of seven, I made my way here from Boston to build something for myself.” Da rubbed his thick fingers across his chin. “There is no cowardice in striking out on your own. Of course, I had your mam with me every step of the way.” He shared a fond smile with Mam. “I would feel more settled about you leaving, Alexander, if you took a wife before you left.”

  “There be plenty of young ladies at church who would jump if you crooked a finger at them.” Mam’s knitting needles never ceased as she cast a glance his way. Janet and Isabel, his younger sisters, both giggled over their mending.

  “At least think on it, lad.” Da stood. “We shall talk no more about this tonight.” He pinned William with a narrow-eyed stare.

  William pushed away from the table and stalked out the door, leaving it open in his wake.

  “He shall come around.” Thomas rose and walked to the door. He turned to look at Alexander. “I know you are no coward, little brother, even if I cannot understand your desire to go to the wilderness. Me, I’m glad I have a wife and bairns in a snug home down the street.” He pulled the door shut behind him.

  At least Thomas would accept his decision, if not agree with it.

  “Why do you not take yourself off tomorrow and do some fishing? The lads and I can carry on for the day. You have earned a bit of fun,” Da said. “And I have a taste for a fish supper.”

  He should finish Mistress McCracken’s order at least, but a day spent fishing along the Schuylkill River was too mighty a temptation. He nodded.

  “You could use the time to think on some of those young ladies your mam mentioned.” Da winked.

  He would think on it. There was good sense in what Da said. The Bible talked about a wife as a man’s helper. In the wilderness that would be a valuable thing. But Alexander knew none of those ladies would match up against the blue eyes and flaming hair of Mistress McCracken.

  “Where are you off to this morning?” Father glanced up from his breakfast as Meg breezed into the dining room.

  “What makes you think I’m off somewhere?”

  “’Tis a new fashion then, to wear your riding habit to breakfast?” He quirked an eyebrow at her.

  She laughed. “You have caught me out. I plan to saddle Gulliver and take a ride along the Schuylkill.”

  “By yourself?”

  “Of course. I shan’t go far, I promise, and I shall stick to the path along the river.”

  “I do not know—”

  “Mother allowed me to ride out on my own the other day, only the rain turned me back sooner than I’d hoped.”

  “Maybe Robbie—”

  “Where is Mother?” Meg looked around the room, hoping to distract her father.

  “Still upstairs. She awoke with a headache. I think ’tis from all her spinning and knitting late into the evening. ’Tis stressful on her eyes.”

  “You could be right, but ’twill not stop her.”

  “Not your mother.” He grinned. “Now about Robbie, he—”

  “He is already off with David to pick up that order of timbers you need from the docks.”

  Father pushed back in his chair and eyed her up and down. “Seems you have this all planned out.”

  “Oh Father.” She came behind his chair and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, still as straight and firm as a young man’s. “You shall have to admit that I’m grown and can take care of myself.”

  He growled and leaned his cheek against hers. “That doesna mean I have to like it.” His Scottish burr thickened at times when his emotions were stirred.

  She kissed his cheek. “Part of me will always be your wee lassie.”

  Half an hour later, she mounted Gulliver and wavered a moment between heading west or north, but she’d told Father she’d be along the Schuylkill River, and Mr. Ogilvie had said the order wouldn’t be done until week’s end, two days away. With a sigh, she pointed Gulliver to the north.

  “I’m surprised Father let me go so easily.” The sorrel gelding tossed his creamy mane as if in agreement. “But I could not knit another sock. After two days of rain, I needed to get out of the house. I bet you needed out of the stable too.” She patted his neck, already growing shaggy in preparation for winter.

  Meg rode through the residential streets. She nodded to several acquaintances without stopping to chat. Even so, it took half an hour to reach the path along the river. She reined Gulliver to a halt and turned her face to the northwest, letting the breeze wash over her. It smelled faintly of fish and muddy banks with a hint of fall’s decay. Several golden leaves slipped from their branches and floated to the water’s surface as she watched.

  She nudged Gulliver, and he stepped out smartly, eager as she was for a canter along the river’s well-worn path. They settled into a steady rhythm, and she let her mind wander. It annoyed her that thoughts of the coming war pushed their way into her morning, so she mentally shoved them aside. Much better to think of Mr. Ogilvie.

  What was it about the blacksmith that piqued her curiosity? He certainly wasn’t like the well-groomed dandies who frequented the dances. Nor was he a dashing swain with rustic charm. He was a blacksmith with dirt smudged across his forehead. Not at all the type of man she should give a second look. Even if his eyes did match his hair to perfection.

  They’d gone about a mile when the path dipped closer to the river. Gulliver slipped down the muddy slope, and she slowed him to a walk. The soft ground swallowed the sound of his hooves. There was an opening ahead where she and Robbie had stopped many times to let the horses drink. Gulliver’s ears perked, and she patted his damp neck. He was no doubt thirsty. They followed the path around a dense patch of willows, and the opening appeared in front of them.

  Someone was already there.

  Broad shoulders spread beneath a black hat and tapered to a trim, but solid waist. Dusty-gold hair escaped its leather tie and clung to the back of his coat. Booted feet were planted wide and the fishing pole in his hands bent toward the water. The fisherman’s attention was riveted to the action playing out before him. A fish flipped free of the river, its scales flashing golden in the sunlight.

  “You caught one.”

  Alexander jerked at the sound of her voice, and the fish, already free of the water’s drag, flew past his nose and over his shoulder, no match for a startled blacksmith’s muscles. A horse squealed, and then a flash of yellow caught the corner of his vision before the telltale thwap of something—somebody—landing in the mud made him cringe.

  Mistress McCracken. He wouldn’t have startled so at just any voice. It was her voice. Now he’d rather face a firing squad than turn around. He blew out a breath, closed his eyes for a moment, steeled himself, and then turned, prepared for the dressing down of his life.

  Mistress McCracken sat in the mud, hands behind her holding her upright, hat askew, knees drawn up, mouth a perfect circle only slightly larger than her eyes … while his fish flopped in the yellow folds of her gown.

  Her horse st
ood a few feet away, its head hung almost nose to the ground, as if chagrined at dumping her in the mud.

  Alexander sympathized with that feeling. He’d never felt more helpless—or inept—in his life.

  She lifted one hand and then the other. Mud oozed down her sleeves, slid off her gloves, and plopped onto the ground beside her to disappear into the puddle in which she sat. Then she grasped for his fishing line tangled around the fish in her lap. Securing it, she held the fish aloft and aimed her blue eyes straight at him.

  “Yours, I presume?”

  He wanted to die. Right there. Right then. What on earth was he supposed to do?

  Her lip twitched.

  To his horror, his did too.

  Then she laughed. Not a polite little twitter or a controlled guffaw, but a deep belly laugh that sprouted tears in her eyes.

  He joined her laughter for a moment until the possibility that she might have become unhinged alarmed him. He came forward and took the fish then offered his hand to help her stand. She grabbed it with her muddy glove, and he pulled her to her feet.

  She dabbed at her face with her sleeve, leaving a smear of mud across one cheek.

  “Are you harmed, mistress?”

  After another muddy swipe at her face, she gained control over her laughter. “I am, I believe, all in one piece, and you have plucked me free from the mud. ’Twould seem I have escaped harm.” She spread her arms and looked down at her ruined gown. “Although I daresay this riding habit will never be the same.”

  “If you will allow me to replace—”

  Her hiked eyebrows stopped his speech. Then she smiled and shook her head. “’Twas entirely my own fault. Riding up behind a man and startling him while he fishes. My brothers will not let me hear the end of this, I can assure you.”

  “Let me, at least, escort you home.”

  She blinked, and her eyes softened. “I should like that.” She blinked again, an impish glint sparking in her eyes. “If you do not mind being seen with such a hoyden as me.”