impersonally, and turned his attention back to Paul’s buttocks and the strip of wounded pink flesh.
Valerian finished her work, dabbing an ointment onto the healing wound to control the infection she saw there. She had felt the baron’s eyes on her, and when she turned she caught that he was paying far closer attention to her hindquarters than to those of his friend. She shrugged off his examination as the idle interest every man showed in a woman, as instinctual as a dog sniffing grass.
She gave an internal sigh. She knew more than enough about the birds and the bees in theory. It was a pity she would never have a chance to put her knowledge into practice.
Chapter Four
The smithy rang with the clang of metal on metal, the roar of the forge a wild backdrop to the heavy blows of Jeremiah’s oversized hammer. The skin on Valerian’s face felt hot and dry from the heat of the shop, and her fingers tingled uncomfortably at the change from the chilly damp air outside.
The blacksmith’s son Eddie did a final inspection of the clamming shovel Aunt Theresa had brought in last week to be repaired: rust, salt water, and rot had broken the marriage between handle and blade. Valerian watched the play of muscles on Eddie’s arms where they emerged from the rolled sleeves of his shirt, wondering if Gwen had yet found a way to claim them for her own. They truly were magnificent arms, she had to admit, and his chest was equally well-developed. Her eyes ran over his body in a way they never had before, trying to fit what she saw displayed in the scorching smithy to what might lie under the cool silks and brocades of Nathaniel Warrington.
It had been nearly a week since her visit to Raven Hall, and she had not seen the baron again. Their meeting had ended on a most uncordial note when the baron had offered her coinage for her services.
Tight-lipped and deeply affronted, she had refused his offer politely at first, then with growing hostility as he tried to press payment upon her. She had gathered her things and quickly left, her offended pride not allowing her to consider his point of view until she was in sight of home.
Of course he had offered her money. He was used to dealing with doctors in the city, who would be fools if they did not demand payment for their services. He could not have known that he was insulting her. Even such rational thought, however, did not completely erase the humiliation she had felt at being offered the small stack of coins.
“Miss Bright?” Eddie’s troubled voice finally pulled her from her thoughts, and she colored as she looked up at his scarlet face and realized that for some time she had been staring at his crotch.
“Ah . . . Is it is ready then?” she asked, gesturing to the shovel.
“I fixed it myself. Is there anything else you will be needing?”
“No, no, that is all, thank you.” She took the shovel, her hand brushing his accidentally, and she briefly met his startled eyes. She tucked the shovel under her arm and fairly dashed from the smithy, bumping into Gwen a few steps outside the door.
“Miss Bright! Good day to you,” the girl said, surprised. “Would you know if Eddie is inside?”
Valerian glanced back over Gwen’s shoulder, to where Eddie had appeared in the shop’s doorway, watching her with interest. “Turn around, and you will see him yourself,” she answered, and patted the girl’s shoulder before turning and walking as fast as she could from the scene.
What on earth had come over her? For the past week she felt as if her thoughts had not been her own. They had a distressing tendency to wander to the baron—“Nate,” as Mr. Carlyle had called him.
A black fluttering at the corner of her eye warned of Oscar’s approach. He landed with a clench of claws, a heavy and welcome weight on her shoulder.
“Valerian Bright!” came an angry female voice.
Valerian hunched her head down into her shoulders, in a gesture borrowed from Oscar. No, not