That thought shocked her a bit. Aye, she did notice men with whom she came into contact. The blacksmith back home was particularly handsome, and she’d liked to watch him at his work whenever she could find the opportunity.
Come to think on it, he too had coal black hair, but with gypsy-dark eyes.
She caught herself up hastily. This man was her husband only by command. She could not harbor such thoughts for him.
Could she?
“D’ye have your own blacksmith here?”
“Nay. That is, we ha’ a man who travels among several estates nearby. But we ha’ our own forge. There ye will see it at the end o’ the block. Cold today, as he is no’ here.”
Alan looked curious, as if wondering why she took an interest.
“When I was a lad, I used to tak’ turns at helpin’ him work the bellows.”
The smith was an older man, then. Annista stifled a flare of disappointment.
She pictured Alan—not as a lad—helping to work in the forge, perhaps without his sark, and the flame sprang back into life.
“A smithy is essential if ye keep horses. D’ye ha’ many?”
“We’ve those for the carriage. A pair o’ Clydesdales for plowing and other farm work, like hauling timber. Father’s mount, Evan’s, and mine.”
“Your mother does no’ ride?”
“No’ anymore.” Alan stopped walking halfway across the courtyard, tantalizingly close to the stable. “D’ye like to ride?”
“I love to. Love horses and all.”
“Ah, I do no’ ken that we ha’ any mount suitable for ye. Ye did no’ bring a mount?”
“She was no’ mine to bring.”
“Well, allow me to show ye the stables.”
The interior of the stone building was warm and fragrant with the scents of clean straw and horse. Annista’s spirits rose immediately and she rejoiced to see the low building looked bright and airy, a door open at the far end.
One could tell much of a man in the way he treated his animals.
Alan performed a tour similar to that she’d had in the kitchen. His father’s mount and his, that he called Chieftain—the beast’s coat as black as his own hair.
“Hello, bonnie lad,” Annista offered Chieftain her hand and a stroke on the nose. “Perhaps,” she suggested with longing, “I might ride him?”
“Perhaps.” Could Alan hear the longing? “He is quite well-mannered.”
“I am a good rider, me.”
Another horse stood in the stall beyond Chieftain’s. “Who is that?”
“Tempest. Evan’s mount. I would no’ go too near.”
“Why not?”
The chestnut stuck his head over the half door. A beauty, he was.
Annista crossed to him and reached out.
Alan caught her back. “Nay,” he said in a low tone. “He has a temper. Evan has ruined him. He was a good horse, once.”
