The Firstborn. Dani Sinclair
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back to claim it.
The depressing memory of that time accompanied Hayley to the kitchen door—a door now covered by another intricately detailed wrought-iron grill. The door was locked.
Trembling with anger, Hayley pressed the bell, holding it in place. There was no sound from within. Where were Mrs. Walsh and Kathy? The housekeeper and her daughter had rooms right off the kitchen. They rarely went out in the evening.
Puzzled, and more than a little uneasy, Hayley took a step back to survey the house in the rapidly fading twilight. Every ground floor window now sported wrought-iron grillwork. Outrage mingled with fear. What was going on? Bars on the doors and windows? Was Marcus preparing for a siege?
Hayley turned toward the converted garage, which had once been a stable. Perhaps a look around inside would tell her something. She was halfway to the building when a light flickering through the trees caught her attention. Was that a fire?
Dropping her overnight case, she broke into a run, only slowing when she realized the glow was growing brighter, but not larger. A strange, rhythmic hammering sound, carried by the wind, had her edging forward more cautiously. Just short of the clearing she paused.
The original Heartskeep had been built in the eighteen hundreds. A fire had destroyed the main house at the turn of the century, and the current mansion had been erected in its place. Some of the barns and outbuildings were still originals. They included an old forge that hadn’t been used in living memory—until now.
The door gaped open, allowing Hayley to see that it wasn’t actually being used now, either. The glow was coming from a large, portable forge standing beyond the building. A man bent over the intense heat of a fire, fueled by a massive propane tank. His features were in profile, his face etched with lines made harsh by the glow of his fire. Hair curled around his neck, thick and dark at the edges where moisture had dampened the strands. A sheen of sweat beaded his arms and plastered the dirty white, sleeveless T-shirt to his formidable chest. Stained jeans encased his lean hips. He was a large man, tall and well muscled. The sort of muscles that came from physical labor rather than a gym.
One of his large hands was covered by a thick, heavy glove holding what appeared to be some sort of tongs. He drew a glowing metal rod from the heart of the fire and set it to one side on a mounted anvil. The bare hand wielded an incredibly heavy-looking hammer, making the large tattoo on his upper arm flex and writhe. Transfixed, Hayley watched the intensity of his expression as he pounded away at the glowing length of metal, twisting and shaping it with undeniable skill.
There was something disturbingly sensual about the stranger and his actions. At the same time, he appeared almost sinister in his single-minded devotion to his craft, as if he was chained there by the fire and his work, pounding away at some inner demon only he could see.
Hayley found herself moving stealthily closer, drawn by the rhythmic force of his blows, awed by the beauty they were creating. He thrust the rod back into the flames once more. She moved even closer, determined to see what he was crafting with such intensity.
She was certain she hadn’t made a sound, but without warning, he turned. The white-hot piece of metal waved only inches from her face. Hayley froze, unable to utter a sound. She felt as if that glowing tip had actually branded her flesh.
“Who the devil are you?” he demanded gruffly, using the hammer to push back his protective goggles and survey her. The disturbing heat of his gaze seemed far hotter than his fire, but at least it broke the spell holding her mute.
Hayley exhaled and raised her chin. “I’d be careful calling on the devil if I were you. You already look like you’re standing over the fires of hell.”
The man blinked in surprise. The corners of his lips darted upward for just a second, but the hint of a smile disappeared before it could form fully and the somber, dark mask settled back over his features.
“A good reason for you to run away, little girl.”
A strange tingle traveled straight up her spine. His voice was as deep and soft as crushed velvet. He rocked back on his heels, surveying her in a blatant challenge she couldn’t ignore.
“Personally, I prefer aerobics to running. I also prefer petite to little. And I haven’t been a girl for a number of years.”
The momentary softening of his mouth hinted at more amusement, quickly hidden. “Yeah? How many?”
She should have been nervous. At the very least, she told herself, she should be cautious. Yet somehow she sensed no real menace from the man, despite his brooding looks. Instead, she sensed an aura of sadness about him that immediately stirred her curiosity.
“I’m old enough to know you’re trespassing on private property.” She forced herself to respond lightly.
“Is that so?”
“Uh-huh. Want to put your weapons down, or do you think you’ll need a hammer and a poker to ward me off?”
A grin slid across his features so fast she couldn’t be sure she’d actually seen one. He set the hammer aside with deliberate care. The glowing metal hissed loudly, sending a vapor stream into the darkness of the night as he plunged the object into a large tin of water.
“I’ll risk it,” he told her.
“So, who are you? What are you doing here?”
“I don’t think you’re the one who should be asking the questions. I was hired to be here. What about you?”
Anger washed over her. “Marcus,” she cursed.
“I gather you know the owner?” he questioned.
“You’re looking at the owner.”
Slowly, he began tugging off his gloves, but not before she had the satisfaction of seeing his surprise.
“A little young, aren’t you?”
“You seem fascinated by my age.”
He watched her, his face mostly in shadow now, giving him an even darker, more brooding appearance.
“You’re a fascinating person,” he told her softly.
Her breath caught in her throat. A current of awareness arced between them. Disconcerted, she shook her head against the powerful impact he seemed to be having on her senses. Not all the heat seemed to be coming from the forge.
“Look, it’s getting late and I’ve just had a tiring drive,” she said quickly. “Is Marcus home?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“Okay. Then do you have a key to get past that fancy gate you put over my back door?”
“Your door,” he said mildly, hooking his thumbs in the waistband of those closely fitted jeans.
“Yes, my door. The name is Hayley Hart Thomas. As of two weeks ago, Heartskeep in its entirety belongs to me and my sister.”
It was only a slight exaggeration. Two weeks ago their mother had been officially declared dead. There was no other living person with any legal right to lay claim to the estate.
The blacksmith regarded her steadily while seconds ticked silently past. Full dark descended. The waves of heat emanating from the fire seemed to fill the night, blocking normal sounds. She gave a small start when he finally spoke again. This time, his voice was bare of inflection.
“No keys, Ms. Thomas. You’ll have to take that up with Mr. Thomas.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I intend to.” Bitterly she decided she might have to call the police after all. “Sorry I disturbed you.” Gathering her anger like a cloak, she spun around. After taking two steps, she paused to look over her shoulder. The stranger hadn’t moved.
“And I want my lions back.”
His eyebrows raised at her demand.
“Do you mean the old stone lions that used to be at the